When Christ and His Saints Slept

6

Tower Royal, London, England

December 1135

The storm raged in from the west, assailing London with stinging rain and sleet. Christmas festivities were muted in consequence, for the city was soon swamped in mud, buffeted by frigid, wet winds. All people of common sense were keeping close to their own hearths, and the streets were deserted as a small band of armed horsemen splashed up Cheapside. The woman they escorted was muffled in a dark, travel-stained mantle and hood, attracting no attention from the few passersby they encountered. They would have been startled, indeed, had they known they were looking upon England’s new queen.

Matilda’s arrival at Tower Royal caused quite a stir; she was supposed to be in Boulogne. Even in crisis, though, she clung to her good manners, for making a scene was her concept of a cardinal sin. Shedding her wet, muddied mantle, she dealt patiently with the flustered servants, saw to the needs of her weary, rain-soaked escort. And then she squared her small shoulders, bracing herself for whatever lay ahead, for whatever Stephen might tell her of his mad, perilous quest for a crown.

She found her husband in the great hall, surrounded by boisterous, jubilant, joking men. She very much doubted that they were celebrating the birth of the Holy Christ Child, and she drew a sharp, shallow breath, one of relief mingled with unease and a twinge of regret. So Stephen had won! She was suddenly sure of that, for she knew these men-highborn lords all, not ones to link themselves to a losing cause.

Waleran and Robert Beaumont, sprawled by the hearth like two huge, lazy mastiffs, good-natured until they caught the scent of blood. The ever-elegant Geoffrey de Mandeville, sitting aloof in the shadows. Hugh Bigod, boastful and wine-besotted. Simon de Senlis, a man who’d let a family betrayal sour his outlook and his life. He was the stepson of the Scots king, and David had claimed-with the connivance of his wife, Simon’s mother-the English earldom that should have been his, that of Huntingdon; by throwing in with Stephen so soon, he no doubt hoped to recoup some of his lost lands at David’s expense. And conspicuously close by Stephen’s side, the Bishop of Winchester, his brother.

As always, the sight of them together made her think of changelings, of babies switched at birth, so unlike were they. Her Stephen, tawny-haired and long-legged, utterly at ease in his own body, looking at least a decade shy of his thirty-nine years, years he’d somehow shrugged off onto Henry, who was paunchy and stoop-shouldered, pale hair already starting to recede. Henry, who lacked Stephen’s grace and easy charm, but whose wits were as sharp as any to be found in Christendom. Henry, whose ambitions soared higher than hawks, far above his brother’s earthbound dreams. The Kingmaker.

It was Geoffrey de Mandeville who noticed Matilda first; he was not a man to miss much. “I thought,” he said, “that you left your lady wife behind in Boulogne.”

“I did,” Stephen said. “I could not put Matilda’s safety at risk, so we agreed she would wait until I knew if my claim would prevail. Why?” But as he glanced toward Mandeville, he saw his wife standing in the doorway. “Matilda?” Astonishment kept him in his seat for a moment or so, and then he was on his feet, crossing the hall in several strides to sweep Matilda into his arms.

“I could wait no longer,” she confessed. “I had to come, Stephen, had to find out for myself what was happening.”

Stephen’s smile was more expressive than any words could have been, revealing not only his triumph and pride but his sense of wonder, too, that it had been so easy. But he was denied the privilege of telling her himself, for his brother was quicker, saying with a smile, “Your womanly fears were for naught, Matilda, my dear. You are now looking upon God’s anointed. Stephen was crowned at Westminster three days ago.”

Matilda gasped. “So fast as that?” she blurted out, and then blushed when the men laughed, feeling like a fool. Speed was essential, after all, in a race for a disputed throne. “With your permission, my lord husband,” she said softly, taking refuge in a familiar role, “I’d best change these wet clothes.”

The men watched approvingly as she departed the hall, for Matilda was their society’s embodiment of female perfection, a great heiress who was also pretty, fertile, sweet-tempered, and submissive. But the bishop had no high regard for wives, perfect or not, and his eyes, an odd smoky shade neither blue nor grey, narrowed upon Matilda’s slim, fragile figure as she disappeared into the shadows of the stairwell.

“Amazing,” he said slowly, “truly amazing. Most men would have balked at a winter Channel crossing. I am astounded, Stephen, that the lass dared to take such a risk, and yes, dismayed, too, for such foolhardiness does not bode well for the future. I think you ought to take her to task-gently, of course-for acting on her own like that. Trust me, that is not a habit you’d want her to cultivate. Women can be headstrong, foolish creatures, especially if they lack a firm male hand on the reins.”

He raised a few eyebrows; a man would have used that supercilious tone with the old king but once. Stephen now showed himself to be more tolerant than his royal uncle; he seemed more amused than offended by the lecture. “What astounds me, Brother Henry, is how a man so learned can have such glaring gaps in his education. You speak at least three languages fluently, and yet you can understand women in none of them! Now…I’m sure you gentlemen can amuse yourselves quite well without me. As much as I enjoy your company,” he said, grinning, “I much prefer the company of the lady awaiting me above-stairs.”

Waleran Beaumont waited until Stephen was out of hearing range, then leaned confidentially toward the bishop. “Is it wise, my lord bishop, to apply the spurs so soon? A clever rider lets the horse get accustomed to his weight in the saddle first.”

“I’ll not deny that I shall be offering my advice freely to my brother the king, and indeed, I trust mine will be a voice he heeds, as I speak for the Holy Church.”

“And of course you would not want any rivals for the royal ear, least of all one who shares the king’s bed. I daresay you gave her nary a thought until now, but suddenly the timid little wife does not seem quite so timid or so trifling, does she? But then, what would a priest know of pillow talk? And if you do, by all that’s holy, you’d best not own up to it!”

Waleran guffawed at his own jest. So did his brother, and the bishop blistered a glance between the two of them. He had long harbored contempt for Waleran and Robert Beaumont, privately dubbing them the “Norsemen,” for they were as fair-haired and brash and bold as the Viking raiders of ancient lore, men of loud laughter, coarse humor, and earthy pleasures. But his disdain had led him astray; he saw that now, saw how it had distorted his judgment. Waleran Beaumont was brazen and self-seeking, but he was not stupid-far from it. He would bear watching, he and his churl of a brother. Stephen must be guarded, lest he fall prey to Beaumont snares. “I am sure the queen would never think to meddle in matters of state. I would that I could say as much for you, my lord!”

Waleran’s good humor was no pose; his temper was not easily kindled. He found it hard, therefore, to understand men like the bishop, prickly and readily provoked; as puffed up, he thought, as any barnyard cock. A pity the bishop was so greedy, for there were spoils enough for all. But if this conniving priest thought he’d cheat the Beaumonts out of their fair share, he’d soon regret it. Stephen was-thankfully-a different sort of man altogether, not one to forget his friends.

“Meddling,” he said cheerfully, “is much like whoring, one of those sins too sweet to forswear!” Waleran and his brother both laughed at that; the bishop did not.

“I will not permit you to take advantage of the king’s goodwill, his trusting nature,” Henry warned, his voice cutting enough to pierce the Beaumont complacency. Waleran scowled, but before he could retort in kind, Geoffrey de Mandeville began to laugh.

“Just out of idle curiosity, my lord bishop, how do you mean to do that?” he queried, turning upon them glittering dark eyes full of mockery. “We might as well be candid. Our choice was between Maude, who listens to no one, and Stephen, who will listen to anyone. As to which flaw be worse, only time will reveal, but I can tell you now which one is like to be the most profitable,” he said and laughed again.

He laughed alone, though. The other men were all glaring at him. A suspicious, tense silence settled over the hall as Stephen’s first Christmas as king drew to an uneasy end.

Matilda had not permitted any of her ladies-in-waiting to accompany her, as she had not known what might await her in England. With no one to help her undress, she had difficulty unfastening the wet lacings of her gown. Finally freeing herself from its sodden folds, she dragged a chair close to the fire, began to unbraid her hair with fingers that shook. She was exhausted, for it had taken almost three days to cover the seventy mudrutted miles from Dover, but she couldn’t go to bed yet, not until Stephen came to her. When he did, she gave him no chance to speak first. “Are you angry with me for not waiting in Boulogne?”

“Angry? My darling, I am delighted!” Taking her hands in his, he smiled down at her with so much pride that she felt tears prick against her eyelids. “I only wish, sweetheart, that you’d gotten here three days ago, in time to be crowned with me. But no matter, you’ll have your own coronation, Tilda, as splendid as I can make it, that I promise. What of Easter? Would that please you?”

She’d just been offered a crown, but her dreams had never been of thrones. “Stephen, why did you not tell me?”

“Tilda, there was no time. I had to sail with the tide for England; even a single day’s delay could have tipped the scales against me.”

She shook her head, unwillingly remembering that dreadful scene in their bedchamber at Boulogne, remembering her disbelief, her scared sense that the world had suddenly gone spinning out of control, listening as Stephen hurriedly explained that his uncle the king was dead and he was departing for England within the hour, that he meant to claim Maude’s crown for himself. “I am not talking of that…that day. Why did you keep your intent from me? You obviously laid your plans long before the old king’s death, yet you said nary a word to me-me, your wife! Why, Stephen, why?”

“We decided it was best that you not know beforehand.” He saw her face change and said hastily, “Of course I trusted you, Matilda! But I knew how you’d worry, and I wanted to spare you that if I could.”

She could not help thinking that he’d kept silent, too, lest she try to talk him out of it. “‘We decided,’” she echoed. “I assume you are not using the royal ‘we,’ so who, then? Your brother the bishop?”

Stephen stared at her, for that was as close as she’d ever come to sarcasm. “Yes,” he acknowledged. “Henry felt from the first that our uncle ought to have named me as his heir. I do not say this to disparage Maude, for I’m sure she would have done her best. But no woman could rule as a man must. My uncle was mad to insist upon Maude. Scriptures tell wives to submit themselves unto their husbands, tell women to keep silent in the churches. So how could it ever be God’s Will that a woman should wield royal power?”

The words were Stephen’s, but she knew whose voice she was really hearing. “And so you and Henry were ready when the king died…?”

He nodded. “Three weeks from my uncle’s death to my coronation; that is all it took, just three weeks. Surely that says much, Matilda, about the mood of the realm. No one wanted Maude to rule, sweetheart, you know they did not. There was no great rush into Anjou after my uncle died, was there? A number of lords at once sought out my brother Theobald, though, and I think it is safe to assume they had more in mind than telling him of the king’s death. The sainted Robert was with them, by the way, when they got word that they were too late, that I had been recognized as king. Some of them, I heard, had even urged Robert to claim the crown himself!”

He left unsaid that Robert had turned the offer down. Matilda bit her lip, waiting until she was sure she, too, would leave it unsaid. “And…and did it all go as planned? When I landed at Dover, I was told there had been trouble at the castle…?”

“Indeed, there was. They refused me entry, and so did the garrison at Canterbury. Not so surprising, I suppose, since they’re Robert’s castles, but still not the most auspicious beginning to my quest.” Stephen’s smile was rueful. “Thank God for the Londoners! If not for their heartfelt support, the warmth of their welcome, my hopes might well have withered right on the vine. From London I rode to Winchester, where Henry was waiting with my uncle’s justiciar. They recognized the validity of my claim and handed over the royal treasury. That left but one hurdle to overcome: the qualms of the Archbishop of Canterbury, for he, too, had sworn that oath to Maude.”

“So you reminded him that the Church does not enforce oaths sworn under duress.” It was easy enough to hazard such a guess, for what other argument could he have made? “You pointed out that none of you gave those oaths freely, that the old king would brook no refusal. And obviously you convinced him.”

Stephen surprised her then, by shaking his head. “No,” he said slowly, “not at first…” His reluctance was painfully apparent, but she was prepared to wait as long as necessary. Their eyes met, briefly, before his slid away. Faint patches of color suddenly stood out across his cheekbones. “It was Hugh Bigod who persuaded him,” he said at last. “He told the archbishop that he’d been with the king at Lyons-la-Foret, that the king named me over Maude as he lay dying.”

Matilda was shocked. “Was it true?”

The color was more noticeable in his face now. “Why should it not be true? All know how he’d quarreled with Maude ere he died.” He gave her one quick, sharp glance, frowned at what he found, and then admitted tautly, “I do not know, did not ask.”

“Oh, Stephen…” Matilda could not hide her dismay, for perjury was a far greater sin than a disavowed oath. “What have you done?”

She’d not meant to speak the words aloud, but there was no calling them back. He flinched, and then stepped forward, grasping her by the shoulders and compelling her to look up at him.

“What have I done? I have spared England a disastrous reign, one that was likely to end in bloodshed! Can you truly imagine men like Chester and the Beaumonts submitting to a woman’s whims, obeying a woman’s commands? They’d have defied her with impunity, for what could she do-take the field against them? Can you tell me in all honesty, Matilda, that you wanted to see Maude as England’s queen?”

“No,” she whispered, “you know I did not…” It was an unfinished sentence, but he did not seem to notice. His grip eased on her shoulders, and some of the tension left his face.

“I will be a good king, Tilda,” he said, “that I do swear to you upon the life of our son, our son who will be king after me. Tell me you believe that.”

She nodded mutely, with no hesitation, for as much as she cherished honour, she cherished Stephen more, and she understood now his need, his own inner doubts about what he’d done. Such doubts could not be left to fester; like proud flesh, they must be cut away. That much she comprehended of power and the conscience of kings.

Sliding her arms up his back, she rested her cheek against his chest. “I love you,” she said, not knowing what else to say. But it was what he needed to hear, and his arms tightened around her. She almost told him then of her own news, that she was with child again. She would be conjuring up a ghost if she did, though-Baldwin, their firstborn, who would never know his father had been crowned as England’s king. She clung to Stephen, thinking of her dead son and the baby now growing within her body, a secret she chose to keep to herself for a while longer, to keep safe.

Stephen was stroking her hair, smoothing it back from her face. “I bear Maude no ill will,” he said. “I understand her disappointment and her anger and blame her not, for the fault lay with my uncle, who ought to have known better. It is my hope, Tilda, that Maude will come to accept my kingship, and when she does, I shall make her most welcome at my court, shall do all in my power to mend the rift between us.”

Matilda tried to imagine Maude’s humbling herself to Stephen-tried and failed. “Do you truly think Maude will ever accept your kingship, love?” she asked dubiously, and Stephen gave her a quizzical smile.

“What other choice,” he asked, “does she have?”

Normandy’s lower capital was swathed in a wet February fog. It clogged the narrow, muddied streets, obscured the skyline of soaring church steeples, and muffled the normal noonday sounds, so that Caen seemed like a city asleep, as if night had somehow come hours before its time. From his vantage point in an upper-story window of the castle keep, Ranulf should have had a sweeping view of the town and its twin rivers, but when he jerked back the shutters, all he got was a surge of cold air, a glimpse of grey.

Robert glanced over at his wife and then got slowly to his feet. “I’d hoped I could make you understand, lad, but-”

Ranulf spun away from the window. “Understand? Not in this lifetime! How can you do it, Robert? How can you recognize Stephen as king?”

“How can I not? All have accepted him, Ranulf. Even Maude’s uncle the Scots king has come to terms with Stephen. If I alone continue to hold out, my defiance will cost me more than I can afford to lose. Unless I agree to do homage, he will declare all my lands forfeit.”

“Let him! At least you’d still have your honour!”

That was too much for Amabel. “Honour is a right tasty dish, too, especially when served with mustard! Is that what you’d have us feed our children, Ranulf?”

Robert shook his head, almost imperceptibly, and Amabel subsided, albeit with poor grace. “Think you that I want to yield to Stephen?” he demanded, and for the first time his voice held echoes of anger. “I am doing what I must. I am indeed sorry that Maude has been cheated of her birthright. But it is my son’s birthright I must try to save now. How will it help Maude if I forfeit the earldom of Gloucester?”

Ranulf had no ready answer, and he swung back to the window, looking out blindly at the fog-shrouded sky. “And what do we tell Maude? That it is all over, that Stephen has won? I cannot do that to her, Robert, and by God, I will not!”

“I said I had agreed to submit to Stephen. I did not say he had won.”

Ranulf turned around to stare at his brother. “What do you mean?”

“I told Stephen that I would come to his Easter court and swear homage to him as England’s king. I specified, though, that my oath would be binding only as long as he kept his promises, kept faith with me. Our father would never have agreed to such terms, not even with a dagger pricked at his throat. But Stephen did.”

“I still do not understand. So you swear to Stephen. What then?”

“We wait,” Robert said succinctly. “What happens after that will be up to Stephen. If he keeps faith with me, so shall I keep faith with him. But I do not believe he will, lad. He will begin to make mistakes, and then, to make enemies, and when he first feels his throne quaking under him, he will look around for a scapegoat, for someone to blame for all his troubles. As likely as not, he will look to me. But by then, he’ll no longer be the dragon-slayer. Men will have come to see his halo for what it truly is-a stolen crown. And they may well conclude that Stephen was not the lesser of evils, after all.”

Ranulf was not reassured by this prediction of coming strife. He was too young yet to feel comfortable with ethical ambiguities, and Robert’s pragmatic realism seemed somewhat cynical to him and not altogether admirable. Although he could not have expressed his need, in the wake of Stephen’s shocking betrayal, Ranulf yearned for moral certainties, for a world with no shadings of grey, no dubious choices, no compromises.

Robert easily read his inner agitation, for Ranulf’s was not a face for secrets. Thinking that innocence could be just as dangerous as a broken battle-lance or cracked shield, he urged, “Sail back to England with me, lad. Make your peace with Stephen. If God wills it, Maude’s chance shall come.”

“No,” Ranulf said hoarsely. “I’ll never recognize him as king-never!”

Such a dramatic declaration cried out for an equally dramatic departure, and Ranulf now provided one, striding purposefully from the chamber without looking back. Robert made no attempt to stop him, but he winced as the door slammed shut and sat down wearily in the window seat.

Amabel’s irritation ebbed, and she crossed quickly to her husband’s side, putting a sympathetic hand upon his knee. “How simple the world seems at seventeen. It is easy enough for Ranulf to pledge Maude his undying loyalty, for what does he have to lose?”

“I would that were so, Amabel, but the sad truth is that the lad has a great deal to lose. He may have no lands to forfeit, but his loyalty to Maude may well cost him what he values most-that lass of his. Raymond de Bernay is liegeman to Simon de Senlis, one of Stephen’s most fervent supporters. Unless Ranulf comes to his senses and does homage to Stephen soon, Bernay will disavow the plight troth for certes.”

“I trust that you pointed this out to Ranulf?”

“Of course I did. But he does not believe me. Ranulf has been cursed with a dangerous defect in his vision: he can see only what he wants to see. He remains convinced that a happy ending is not only possible, it is a certainty, so sure is he that virtue and justice must prevail. He can no more conceive of losing Annora than he can of Stephen triumphing over Maude.”

Amabel shivered suddenly. “Close the shutters, love, ere we catch our deaths. That ‘dangerous defect’ of Ranulf’s-you know who else shares it?”

“Stephen,” he said promptly, and she gave a satisfied nod.

“Indeed. I’ve never known anyone who thrives on hope as Stephen does. He never doubts that every storm must have a rainbow, and if he falls into a stream, he fully expects to rise up with a fish in his cap!”

Robert slid the shutter latch into place, closing out the cold but casting the window seat into shadow. “Well, I would wager that the next time our new king stumbles into a stream, he’ll find himself in water over his head. The pity of it,” he added grimly, “is that he’ll not drown alone, but will drag some good men down with him. I just hope Ranulf will not be one of them.”

Raymond De Bernay was a man of uncommon patience, and his fondness for Ranulf was genuine. But he was not willing to wait indefinitely, and on a cool, overcast day in early June, Ranulf at last ran out of time.

“I have been more than fair with you, lad. I’ve given you every chance to repent your folly and make your peace with the king. I will ask you but once more. Will you come to England, swear homage to Stephen?”

“No,” Ranulf said softly, “I cannot.”

Raymond had expected no other answer. “So be it, then.” Striding to the solar door, he beckoned to his son. “Ancel, you are to watch over your sister whilst she and Ranulf say their farewells,” he said, and although his voice held no anger, it held no hope of reprieve, either.

Ancel had not seen Ranulf in several months, for his father had taken him from Robert’s household as soon as Robert’s loyalty came into question, placing him with a lord whose allegiance was not suspect, Simon de Senlis. Ancel looked acutely uncomfortable; while he had no objections to being cast as the defender of his sister’s virtue, that was not a role he’d ever wanted to play with Ranulf. He mustered up a sheepish smile, a shrug, and was relieved when Ranulf smiled back.

“You need not be so discomfited, Ancel, for this came as no surprise. I knew how your father would react. Just as I know what a hard task lies ahead of me, trying to persuade Annora to be patient and-”

The door was thrown open with such force that the closest candle flame flared and then waned. Annora’s eyes were swollen and darkly circled, her pallor so pronounced that she looked ill. Wakeful nights and tear-drenched days, bewilderment and betrayal-it all showed so nakedly upon her face that Ranulf’s utter assurance faltered for a moment, much like that quavering candle. But Annora’s eyes were dry, for she’d vowed that she was done with weeping. She stopped just out of reach, and said bitterly, “So you are still set upon this madness.”

“I have no choice, Annora. I cannot do homage to a man who stole my sister’s crown and then perjured himself to keep-”

“Oh, you did have a choice! You chose Maude over me!”

Ranulf frowned. “That is not true. You know better, Annora, for we have talked about this, and I’ve told you my reasons, why I must support Maude’s claim over Stephen’s-”

“I do not want to hear any more, not another word! You knew that if you balked at swearing homage to Stephen, you’d lose me; you knew that, but still you clung to that haughty, vengeful bitch, still you-”

“Annora, stop it! You are not being fair, to me or to Maude. Yes, I am loyal to my sister. But you are the one I love, the one I mean to wed. We may have to wait awhile, but we will be wed, that I promise you,” he vowed, with all the conviction at his command. When he reached for her, though, Annora recoiled abruptly.

“Do not touch me,” she warned, “not ever again! You had your chance, made your choice, and I will never forgive you for it-never!” She was perilously close to tears, and she whirled, stumbling from the chamber before Ranulf could see them fall.

Ancel hastily grabbed for the fire tongs, busied himself in scattering stone-cold ashes about the hearth. But he soon felt foolish, gave up the pretense, and turned reluctantly to face his friend. It was not as bad as he’d feared. Ranulf looked unhappy and angry, but not desolate or defeated, not in need of the sort of comfort Ancel did not know how to give.

“With a temper like hers, your father must save a fortune on firewood.” It was a wan attempt at humor, but Ancel chuckled long and loud, so grateful was he that Ranulf was jesting, not raving or ranting or, Jesu forfend, expecting him to stanch the bleeding.

Ranulf was fumbling in his tunic. “I’ve a letter for Annora,” he said, “and I want you to give it to her once her anger cools.”

“If we live that long,” Ancel gibed, but he reached for the letter, and even tried to look as if he truly believed that it was not too late.

They were on the road by dawn. The sun quickly burned away the morning mist, and the sky took on that glazed blue unique to early autumn, a color so clear and vivid that it did not seem quite real. In the distance, the trees appeared to be dusted with gold, as the green shades of summer slowly yielded to October’s amber and copper and russet. The villages they passed through were shuttered and still, ghost villages bereft of life, for when an army was on the march, people of common sense fled, or cowered behind bolted doors and prayed.

“Guirribecs!” The warning had raced ahead, outrunning horses, spurred on by pure panic. “Guirribecs!” A Norman term of contempt for the ancient enemies of Anjou, now ravaging their lands, burning their churches, plundering their towns. “Guirribecs!” they spat, watching from hiding as this new army rode past, marveling that these men did not stop to torch or loot. They did not understand their reprieve, but they thanked God for it, never suspecting that they should also be thanking the woman who would be their duchess.

Riding at his sister’s side, Ranulf caught an occasional glimpse of a creaking shutter, an astonished face staring after them in wonder. An army lived on the land whenever it could, and those who had the bad luck to be in its path were bound to suffer. But Maude was too shrewd to turn her army loose upon the very people she meant to rule. Ranulf wished that Geoffrey had shown the same restraint. This was Geoffrey’s second foray into Normandy, and each time his men had pillaged and raped and robbed on such a grand scale that for every castle won, he’d lost Maude hearts beyond counting.

So far Geoffrey’s campaign had yielded mixed results; he’d won some impressive victories, but he’d also suffered a few sharp setbacks. He’d taken Carrouges after a three-day siege, only to be repulsed at Montreuil. But he’d then captured Moutiers-Hubert, and as Michaelmas had approached, he’d made ready to besiege a grand prize, indeed, the prosperous city of Lisieux. Maude felt confident that he would prevail. However often she’d damned him to Hell Everlasting over the past eight years, she’d never denied his abilities as a battle commander.

Each time Ranulf glanced over at his sister, he felt a throb of pride, for it was not so long ago that Maude had given birth to her third son, and the delivery had not been an easy one. But she’d responded to Geoffrey’s summons with alacrity, gathered two thousand men under her command, and set such a punishing pace that by dusk on this first day of October, they expected to be within sight of the city walls of Lisieux.

Catching Ranulf’s eye, Maude smiled. “It gladdens me that you’ll be there to witness the fall of Lisieux,” she said, and Ranulf knew she was thinking of the brother who would not be there: Robert, who’d been in England since April, at Stephen’s court. Nor was he alone, for their brother Rainald had also come to terms with Stephen. But it was Robert’s defection that haunted Maude, one more act of betrayal.

A sudden flurry off to the side of the road drew their attention. The thickets rustled, and Ranulf’s two dyrehunds went streaking off into the underbrush. “They must have flushed a rabbit,” Ranulf said, but he made no attempt to call them back, knowing they’d catch up again once their hunt was over.

Maude decided, then, that this was a good time to rest their horses, and gave the order to halt. “Have you had any word about that lass of yours…Anna, was it?”

“Annora…and no, I have not. If she were still at Bernay, I know she would have been able to get a letter to me by now. But her father returned to England in July, and he took Annora with him.”

Maude had met Annora on several occasions and had been quick to conclude that the girl was quite ordinary, not at all the sort of wife she would have chosen for Ranulf. But now none of that mattered. If Ranulf wanted Annora, she would move Heaven and Earth to see that he got her. She would not forget those who had stood by her when it truly counted…or those who had not.

“You and your lass will be well rewarded for your patience,” she promised. “I’ll give you a wedding so lavish that the festivities will last for days.”

“Between the two of us, Annora and I could not scrape up enough patience to fill a thimble,” Ranulf said ruefully. “Fortunately, we’ll not have to wait much longer. Once you take Normandy away from Stephen, he’ll find he’s seized control of a sinking ship. Even the rats will start swimming for shore,” he predicted with a grin.

Maude gave him an amused look. “The rats must be jumping overboard in droves after what happened at Exeter,” she said, and they both laughed, for they’d not expected Stephen to begin blundering so soon. Until Exeter, he’d been making all the right moves, placating the Pope and buying peace with the Scots king. But then Baldwin de Redvers had seized Exeter Castle. Stephen had promptly assaulted the stronghold, and after a three-month siege, victory was his for the taking. It was then that he’d tarnished his triumph with an act of mercy so misguided that men were still marveling at it. He’d heeded the pleas of Baldwin de Redvers’s fellow barons, allowed the castle garrison to go free.

“They were in rebellion against him,” Maude said, baffled that Stephen had failed to grasp so basic a tenet of kingship. “Those men should have been hanged, or at the least, maimed, so their fate might serve as a lesson for other would-be rebels. Instead, he sets them free! Forgiveness is well and good for saints and holy men and Christian martyrs, but that is not an indulgence any king can afford. This was Stephen’s first test of strength, and he failed miserably, for men now know they need not fear the king’s wrath.”

“Stephen never could resist a gallant gesture,” Ranulf jeered, summoning up scorn to keep from remembering those times when Stephen’s gallantry had served as his own lifeline. He’d never realized how dangerous memories could be, not until he had a lifetime of them to deny, for if the man himself had proved false, it must follow that the memories, too, were false…did it not? These were not thoughts he cared to dwell upon, and he hastily groped for a more innocuous topic. “Tell me about Geoffrey’s new ally. I’ve never met him; what sort of man is he?”

There was no need to be more specific; Maude knew at once whom he meant. “Well…William is not one to be overlooked, for he’s a vast mountain of a man, with hungers to match his size. Even his titles are weighty: Duke of Aquitaine and Count of Poitou. He has a booming laugh, an eye for a pretty face, a temper hotter than brimstone, and even more enemies than Geoffrey. Have I left anything out?”

“Not that I can think of. Oh…have you ever seen his daughter?” Ranulf thought the question sounded quite casual and offhand, but Maude was not taken in.

“Does Annora know you’re lusting after Eleanor of Aquitaine?” she teased, and he flushed, then laughed. “No, lad, I have not seen the girl, so I cannot tell you if she is truly as dazzling as men claim. Since she is such a great heiress, it does not seen fair that she should have been favored with great beauty, too, does it?”

“The same could be said for you,” Ranulf pointed out, and although she merely shrugged, he knew he’d pleased her; Geoffrey’s compliments were always barbed enough to draw blood. “I’ll admit I am curious about the Lady Eleanor, would like to judge this beauty of hers for myself. It puzzles me, though, that her father did not marry again after he lost his wife and son. Surely he must have qualms about entrusting Aquitaine to a mere slip of a lass-”

He caught himself, too late. But Maude was not affronted. “You need offer no apologies, Ranulf, for saying what so many think. Nor have I ever claimed that all members of my sex are capable of wielding power. I can only speak for myself, and I have no doubts whatsoever that I can rule as well as any man and better than most, for certes better than my usurping cousin, damn his sly, thieving soul to Hell!”

“And you’ll soon be able to prove it, too, that I-Maude? Look over there, through the trees. Smoke!”

Maude was shortsighted, but she soon saw it, too, a distant, dark cloud smudging the purity of that limpid, azure sky. They both said it at once, in dismayed comprehension: “Lisieux!”

Maude’s scout reined in a lathered horse, swung from the saddle to give her his bad news. Stephen had entrusted the defense of Normandy to Waleran Beaumont, and Waleran had garrisoned Lisieux with battle-wise Breton soldiers. When it had begun to look as if the capture of the city was inevitable, the Breton commander gave the order to fire the town, choosing to destroy Lisieux rather than surrender it.

Maude turned aside, struggling to mask her disappointment. Ranulf was disappointed, too, but he was also shocked by the ruthlessness of the Breton commander’s act. He said nothing, though, for he was still a month shy of his eighteenth birthday, and he knew he had much to learn about how wars were waged. The scout was not done. Thwarted at Lisieux, he said, Count Geoffrey and the Duke of Aquitaine had then fallen back on the town of Le Sap. It was being stoutly defended by Walter de Clare, and a battle was raging even now in the streets.

The day’s last light was fading along the horizon. But the sky was lit by a hundred fires. The church of St Peter was the heart of Le Sap. Now flames were shooting from every window. As Maude and Ranulf watched, the rafters gave way and the roof collapsed with a hellish roar. Embers and sparks and burning brands rained down upon the spectators, spooking several horses and unseating their riders. As the wind shifted, Ranulf found himself choking on dense, swirling smoke. He could hear screaming, and hoped it was not coming from the church, for it was utterly engulfed in surging, wind-lashed flames. The air was hot enough to sear his skin, and when his stallion panicked, he was tempted to let it bolt, for in that moment his desire to put Le Sap’s death throes far behind was almost overwhelming. Instead, he calmed the fearful animal, then reined in beside his sister.

Maude had clapped her veil over her nose and mouth. “Well, Le Sap is ours, what is left of it. It looks like the castle has fallen, too. But-”

“Lady Maude!” Striding toward them out of the murky smoke and cinders was an armor-clad giant, his coif pulled back to reveal a tousled head of curly, damp hair, his face streaked with soot, his hauberk liberally splattered with blood. “Thank God you’re here, for you’ve got to talk some sense into that lunatic you married!”

Maude’s smile was sour; as if she could! “You give me too much credit, Will. Where is Geoffrey…at the castle?”

“No, he is still being treated by the doctor.”

“Doctor? Geoffrey has been hurt?” Maude slid from the saddle before the Duke of Aquitaine could offer his assistance. “Is it serious?”

“No, more’s the pity,” he snapped, and Ranulf barely stifled an involuntary laugh. But the duke, whose tactlessness was legendary, seemed unaware how inappropriate a remark that was to make to a man’s wife, even a less than doting one. “It happened about noon,” he said, “whilst we were besieging the castle. One of their crossbowmen got off a lucky shot and hit Geoffrey in the foot. I’ll not deny it is a nasty wound, for he broke a few bones, and those fool doctors did almost as much damage as the bowman when they cut out the bolt. So there has to be a goodly amount of pain. But Christ on the Cross, Maude, a man cannot give in to it!”

“Geoffrey has never been wounded before, Will, not even so much as a scratch. In fact, he rarely gets sick at all-mayhap a fever or cough, but no more than that since we’ve been wed. It is not surprising, then, that he’d be such a poor patient, for he’s had no practice at it.”

“No, Maude, you do not understand…not yet. He says the campaign is over, says he is going home to Anjou on the morrow!”

The doctor was standing in front of Geoffrey’s command tent. At sight of Maude, he looked like a man reprieved from the gallows. “Madame, how glad I am to see you! If you could talk to the count, mayhap you could-” But Maude brushed past the man as if he didn’t exist, with Ranulf and the Duke of Aquitaine hard on her heels.

Geoffrey had been trying to drown his pain in wine, but he’d succeeded only in making himself queasy, too. His face was grey and beaded with cold sweat; he looked so haggard that even Ranulf felt a flicker of pity. Maude hastened toward the bed, snatching up a candle along the way. “Geoffrey?”

Blinking in the sudden flare of light, Geoffrey focused hazily upon the white, tense face so close to his. “Get me a doctor,” he said huskily. “That dolt out there could not heal a blister without holy help from Above…”

“Geoffrey, you cannot give up the campaign! If you retreat now, you’ll lose all you’ve gained so far, and your suffering will have been for naught!”

“And my suffering just breaks your heart,” he muttered, gesturing toward his wine flagon. After Maude had helped him to drink, he struggled upright with difficulty. He acknowledged neither Ranulf nor the unhappy doctor, hovering nervously in the entrance. But he targeted the Duke of Aquitaine with a bloodshot, accusing glare. “Did you bother to tell her about my wound first, Will? Or did you plunge right in, bemoaning all your lost plunder, your chance to spill some blood?”

The duke glared back, calling Geoffrey an obscene name that was wasted upon Ranulf, for he spoke no langue d’oc, the native tongue of the duke’s domains. Maude ignored the acrimonious exchange, keeping her eyes riveted upon her husband’s face.

“Geoffrey, this is not a decision to be made in haste. I’m sure you’ll see it differently on the morrow-”

“And how would you know that, Maude? Have you ever been wounded in battle?”

No, but I damned near died bearing your son! Maude somehow managed to bite the words back; what would it serve to squabble over who had suffered more? “Geoffrey, I am not making light of your pain. But with so much at stake, you must not lose heart. If you do, we’ll lose Normandy!”

“Normandy will wait for me to heal at home. And so will you…dear heart,” he added, investing the endearment with such lethal sarcasm that Maude’s temper took fire.

“‘Heal at home,’” she echoed scathingly. “For God’s sake, Geoffrey, you were not gut-shot! Since when is a foot wound fatal?”

Geoffrey’s hand jerked, spilling his wine onto the bed covers. “You meddlesome bitch, look what you’ve done! I curse the day my father yoked me to a spiteful, provoking scold like you, and God help me, but you get worse with age! If I say we go back to Anjou, we go, and I’ll hear no more on it, not unless you want me to leave you behind to fend for yourself. Now fetch me more wine, and then find me another doctor, a competent one this time.”

Maude went hot with humiliation and impotent fury. Her face flaming, she drew back into the tent’s shadows until she could trust herself. He’d said worse to her, done worse, too, but not in public. She would never forgive him for shaming her like this before Ranulf and the duke, and it took every shred of her self-control to keep silent. But she must think of her sons, think of her Henry, who would one day rule England after her. She would not let Geoffrey steal her sons as Stephen had stolen her crown. Damn his poisoned tongue and that bowman’s wretched aim and Robert’s defection, damn all the men who treated their dogs better than their women! Bracing herself, she turned around then, her head high, only to find that Ranulf and the duke had gone, leaving her alone with her husband.

Ranulf was sitting upon an overturned bucket within view of Geoffrey’s tent. He’d wangled a joint of roast beef from one of the camp cooks, although he’d ended up sharing most of it with his dogs. For the past hour he’d been trying to convince himself that he’d done the right thing, the only thing he could do. He knew Maude’s pride, hoped he’d been able to salvage some of it.

It had been hard, though, saying nothing whilst that misbegotten hellspawn humbled his sister as if she were a serving wench. And yet what could he say? Even the duke had held his peace, and he wanting only to throttle Geoffrey there in his bed. But they could not meddle between a man and his wife, however much they wanted to. The female dyrehund seemed to sense his mood, nudging his knee fondly, but keeping an eye peeled on that beef bone. “Here, girl, catch,” he said, and watched as she disappeared into the darkness before her mate could claim the bone.

When Maude emerged from the tent, he jumped hastily to his feet. She paused, then came toward him. They walked in silence for a time. Whenever they passed a soldier carrying a torch, Ranulf studied her face, not even sure what he was searching for. He wanted to ask if she was all right; it seemed safer, though, to pretend nothing had happened. But there was something they could not ignore: Geoffrey’s threat.

“Do you think he meant it?” he asked, and Maude nodded.

“He meant it,” she said tersely. “We depart on the morrow for Anjou.”

Ranulf had been half expecting to hear that, but it still had the power to shock. “Our father must have been mad to make you wed that man!” Maude shrugged; he could read nothing in her profile, and he reached out uneasily, touched her arm. “Maude…you are not giving up?”

She turned to face him then, giving him a glimpse of narrowed dark eyes, cheekbones burning with feverish heat. “Give up? No, Ranulf,” she said, sounding desperate and determined and bitter beyond words. “I will never give up, not until my dying breath, and not even then.”