When Christ and His Saints Slept

7

Falaise, Normandy

June 1137

After fifteen months as England’s king, Stephen felt secure enough upon his throne to turn his efforts toward Normandy. Determined to bring the duchy more firmly under his control, he crossed the Channel in March. At first he met with heartening success; the French king recognized his claim to Normandy. But in May, Geoffrey led an army across the River Sarthe.

Stephen was besieging Mezidon by then, punishing a recalcitrant baron. He wasted no time, though, in dispatching a large armed force to block Geoffrey’s invasion. Having ravaged the countryside around Exmes, Geoffrey then pressed northward, leaving behind a trail of charred ruins, skeletal, smoke-blackened silhouettes rising up like ghostly tombstones to mark his army’s passing. He’d advanced within ten miles of Robert’s stronghold at Caen when he encountered Stephen’s army at Argences.

A battle seemed imminent, one that might settle the disputed succession once and for all. But Stephen’s army was an uneasy mix of Norman barons and Flemish mercenaries, and they were as wary of one another as they were of Geoffrey’s Angevins. Stephen had entrusted command to William de Ypres, a Flemish adventurer with a chequered past, an abundance of courage, and a skeptical streak far wider than the stream separating the two hostile armies. Ypres’s suspicions were aimed at Robert, for he was convinced that Maude’s brother was a Trojan horse in the Norman camp, awaiting an opportune moment to switch sides. He made no secret of these suspicions, and Robert withdrew angrily to his castle at Caen, amid a flurry of mutual, embittered accusations. Robert’s departure demoralized his fellow barons, and Norman-Flemish hostility soon reached such a pitch that Ypres abandoned his campaign, riding off in a rage to join Stephen at the siege of Mezidon.

Geoffrey decided it would not be prudent to force Robert to make a choice just yet, and he withdrew as far as Argentan. Stephen soon followed, though. By June, he’d summoned his army to Lisieux and was preparing to launch an assault upon Argentan. Once more it looked as if England’s crown would be won or lost upon the thrust of a blade, bought with blood.

THE tavern was hard to find, tucked away at the end of an alley in one of the more disreputable neighborhoods of Falaise. By the time he finally spotted the protruding ale-pole, Gilbert Fitz John had gotten his boots thoroughly muddied, almost had his money pouch stolen by a nimble-fingered thief, and had been forced to fend off so many beggars and harlots that he doubted he’d reach the Rutting Stag with either his purse or his honour intact. Brushing aside the most persistent of the beggars, he plunged through the open doorway and found himself in a crowded common room that stank of sweat and unwashed bodies and cheap wine. The chamber was meagrely lit by a few reeking tallow candles, and Gilbert backed into a corner until his eyes adjusted to the gloom, all the while trying to appear inconspicuous, no mean feat for a youth with flaming red hair who towered head and shoulders above the other tavern customers.

“Do you know what you look like? A man who’s strayed into Hell by mistake, and is politely pretending not to notice the flames, brimstone, and burning flesh.”

At sound of that familiar voice, Gilbert sighed with relief, then said grumpily, “Given a choice, I think I’d take Hell over the Rutting Stag. Leave it to you to pick a hovel like this!”

Ranulf grinned. “Say what you will of this sty, it is not a place where I am likely to be recognized.”

“You hope,” Gilbert said, with fervor. “You have not changed a whit, have you, Ranulf? God save us both, as reckless as ever, with Stephen’s army barely a stone’s throw away and Falaise aswarm with his spies!” Ranulf shrugged. “If I am crazed for setting up this meeting, what does that make you for agreeing to it?”

“A fool, for certes. But I’m here now, and we may as well make the best of it. You can at least buy me a drink ere some of Stephen’s Flemish hirelings drag us off to gaol.”

Ranulf laughed. “Wait till you taste the wine they sell here; it puts swill to shame!” Once they’d shoved their way to a corner table, Ranulf leaned forward, resting his elbows upon the warped, greasy wood, and studied his friend. It had been more than fifteen months since they’d seen each other, for Gilbert had continued to serve as one of Robert’s squires, following his lord to Stephen’s English court. “I’m right glad you came, Gib. Damn me if else, but I’ve even missed you…a little.”

“Of course I came,” Gilbert muttered, sounding both pleased and embarrassed. “And so will Ancel. He’d never miss a chance to risk his neck.” He knew what Ranulf was about to ask, and tried to head it off, saying hastily, “I did not see much of Ancel these months past, for Lord Robert came to the king’s court only when summoned. Robert did not even sail for Normandy with Stephen’s fleet, preferring to cross the Channel in his own ship.”

“You’ll not be struck by a lightning bolt if you say her name aloud,” Ranulf said, and Gilbert ducked his head, staring down at the table as if he were intent upon memorizing every crack, splinter, and stain.

“Annora de Bernay. See…no thunderbolts. I am not loath to talk about Annora. I just hope Ancel had the mother wit to seek her out ere he left England. If he has forgotten to bring her letters, I’ll be tempted to prod his memory with a poleax! Keep this betwixt us, but I never thought our separation would last this long, Gib. It would ease my mind greatly if I could reassure Annora that our waiting is almost done. There is no chance of that, though, not unless I learn to walk on water.” Ranulf paused, waiting for a response that didn’t come, and gave an exaggerated, comic sigh. “Friends are supposed to laugh at each other’s jokes, no matter how lame.”

Gilbert managed a dutiful, unconvincing chuckle. “So you think, then, that Stephen is riding close to the cliff these days?”

“Any closer and he’d better hope his horse sprouts wings! Robert could earn his living as a soothsayer if needs must, for he predicted it with dead-aim accuracy-that Stephen would begin to make mistakes and then to make enemies. He infuriated the Marcher lords when he balked at putting down that rising in Wales last year. Then that Flemish brigand of his, William de Ypres, caused a breach with Robert, the one man Stephen should be trying to win over. And rumor has it that he has fallen out with his brother, for it’s been six months since the Archbishop of Canterbury died and Henry’s patience is wearing thin. I can understand why Stephen is wary of nominating him, but if he does not, Henry will never forgive him. No, Gib, Stephen’s crown has lost a lot of its luster. Once he loses Normandy, too, his hold upon England will crack beyond mending.”

Gilbert did not agree that the loss of Normandy was a foregone conclusion, not with Stephen’s army just twenty miles away, poised to launch an assault upon Argentan. But he kept his doubts to himself, instead asked Ranulf if Maude was still at Argentan with Geoffrey.

Ranulf shook his head. “Maude is often at Argentan; she believes that her presence in Normandy helps to strengthen her claim to the duchy.” Leaving unsaid the obvious, that Maude’s unhappy marriage was another reason why she’d prefer Argentan to her husband’s domains. “But when Geoffrey invaded Normandy last month, he forced Maude to withdraw with their sons to Domfront. Supposedly it was done for their safety’s sake, but I think Geoffrey just wanted Maude out of the way. He’s not one for letting a minor detail-that Maude is the rightful heiress-interfere with his ambitions. Remember, Gib, how we used to worry that Geoffrey might insist upon sharing Maude’s throne? Well, that fear was for naught. In truth, Geoffrey would not care if England sank into the sea without a trace. It is Normandy he covets, and you may be sure-”

A large hand clamped down on Ranulf’s shoulder. Startled, he spun around to confront a burly stranger, one with heavily muscled arms, a massive chest, and a face twisted askew by several puckered scars. “I know who you are!” the man cried, and Ranulf jerked free, fumbling for his sword hilt. But his blade never cleared the scabbard, for his assailant was already backing away. “I meant no harm! Your friend said it was just a joke!”

Ranulf snatched up his wine, gulping it down in two swallows. Gilbert drained his own cup just as fast. As they watched, Ancel tossed a coin to his baffled accomplice before sauntering toward them. “Well?” he demanded, “have you no greeting for me?” and then pretended to stagger backward, arm upraised to ward off the wave of scalding invective coming his way. When Ranulf and Gilbert had exhausted their supply of obscenities, if not their indignation, Ancel straddled a bench and began to laugh. “I am sorry to say this, Ranulf, but being around Maude has not been good for you; you’re becoming as grim and humorless as she is! Now our poor Gib never had a sense of humor to lose, but I did expect better of you.”

“When I called you a misbegotten, witless whelp without the brains God gave a flea…I was being too kind.”

Ancel laughed even harder at that, then waved an arm expansively about the tavern. “A great place you picked for our reunion, Ranulf. What…the lepers would not let you use their lazar house?” Catching a serving maid’s eye, he pantomimed a drink order. “If I pay for the next round of the local poison, can we agree to a truce? So tell me, why are you not barricaded with Geoffrey behind Argentan’s walls? Poor Maude-her luck has soured for certes. What irked her more, being penned up with her loving husband or missing the wedding in Bordeaux?”

Ranulf knew at once what he meant, for there were only two topics of conversation that summer, the war and the wedding. The Duke of Aquitaine had gone off on pilgrimage after his abortive campaign with Geoffrey, and he’d died that past April in Spain, lingering long enough to arrange a marriage between his fifteen-year-old daughter, Eleanor, and Louis, the son of the French king. It was his deathbed hope that he was thus safeguarding Aquitaine for Eleanor, giving her a husband powerful enough to protect her inheritance. The wedding was to take place in July, and had the circumstances been different, Ranulf would have enjoyed attending the revelries, watching Eleanor the Fair take her first step onto the road that led to the throne of France. But he was not amused by Ancel’s jest, for he resented its implications, that Maude was a vain, frivolous female, one who’d give equal weight to a crown and a wedding fete. He’d become very protective of his sister in these past eighteen months, had long since forgotten that he’d once harbored the same doubts about feminine resolve or womanly valor, and he said impatiently:

“There is not a soul to be found in all of Christendom who could distract Maude from what truly matters-claiming the throne Stephen stole. And if you think I’d rather talk about Eleanor of Aquitaine than Annora, you’re either drunk or demented or both. I’ve gone a year with no word from your sister, and that was long enough to last a lifetime. So let’s strike a deal here and now. You hand over Annora’s letters and I’ll not inspect her seal to see if you read them on the sly!”

Ranulf grinned and reached across the table for Annora’s letters. But Ancel had turned, was glaring accusingly at Gilbert. “You did not tell him?”

“Me? It was not my place to tell him,” Gilbert protested. “She is your sister, not mine!”

Ranulf frowned. “Tell me what? Annora is not ailing?”

“No,” Ancel said reluctantly, “she is well enough. But you’d best put her out of your mind, Ranulf, for she is married.”

Ranulf stared at him, then laughed. “How gullible do you think I am, Ancel? Next you’ll be telling me she has decided to become a nun!”

“Ranulf, I am not jesting. She is married, I swear it.”

Ranulf half rose from the bench, grabbed Ancel’s wrist. “That is a lie!”

“No…it is not. She was wed last Michaelmas to Gervase Fitz Clement.” Ancel tried unsuccessfully to break Ranulf’s grip. “I know you do not want to hear this, but it was for the best. It was a good match, for he is a kinsman of my father’s liege lord, Simon de Senlis, and holds manors in Shropshire and Leicestershire and Yorkshire-”

“Why are you lying like this? I know your father, know how he dotes upon Annora. He’d never force her to wed against her will, no matter how many manors the man had!”

“For Christ’s sake, lower your voices,” Gilbert urged, “for we are starting to attract attention!”

“Annora was not forced! She wanted the marriage!” Ancel was suddenly free. He rubbed his wrist, drew a deep breath, and repeated, “She wanted it, Ranulf, and that is God’s Truth.”

AS soon as he moved, Ranulf was assailed by pain. Squeezing his eyes shut, he lay very still, waiting for it to pass. It didn’t, though, and he forced himself to sit up, fighting back a wave of nausea. He had no idea where he was. It seemed to be a tiny cubicle up under the eaves of a roof, a dingy, sparsely furnished room that reeked of perfume and held only a straw mattress, a chamber pot, and several coffer chests that doubled as seats. The lone window was shuttered, and the air fetid and stale, oppressively hot. His clothes were scattered about in the floor rushes, and by gritting his teeth, he managed to ignore his throbbing head long enough to collect his crumpled tunic, linen shirt, and braies. He had to hunt for his chausses, finally finding the striped hose entangled in the sheets. But a search of the entire room did not turn up his money pouch.

He was slowly pulling on his boots when the door opened and a woman entered. “Awake at last, are you? I was beginning to think I’d have to charge you rent, sweeting!”

The light was so dim that Ranulf could tell only that she was young and plump. “What time is it?” he mumbled, and then, “No! Do not open the window!” But he was too late. Pulling the shutters back, she blinded him with a sudden surge of bright afternoon sunlight.

Groping his way down a narrow stairway, Ranulf emerged into an inn’s common chamber. A few men were seated in the shadows, and one of them now beckoned. As he moved closer, he recognized Ancel.

“Jesus God, you look like somebody pried off the lid of your coffin! Sit down ere you fall down, over here at the table. I do not suppose you want anything to eat yet?” Ranulf was not able to suppress a shudder, and Ancel grinned. “No, I thought not. I’m not surprised you’re so greensick, for you damned near drank Falaise dry. Oh…ere I forget, here is your money pouch. We thought I’d better hold on to it, since you were in no shape to fend off a mewling kitten, much less any of the cutthroat knaves prowling about this hellhole.” He watched as Ranulf slumped onto a stool, then slid a clay goblet across the table. “Have a few swallows of ale.”

Ranulf peered into the cup, thirst warring with queasiness. “So you paid the wench above-stairs, then? I owe her no money?”

“I even chaffered her price down, and a good deal I got for you, too. She was worth it, I trust? Ah…but you do not remember, do you? I suppose you do not remember the doxy at the Crane on Tuesday, either? A pity, for that one looked hotter than Hades!”

Ranulf took a tentative sip of the ale. “Where is Gib?”

“He’d begun to fret so about letting Lord Robert down that I finally sent him back to Caen. You’ll have to help me concoct a plausible excuse for my absence, or Lord Simon will have my hide.”

Ranulf blinked. “Tuesday, you said? What day is this?”

“Thursday.” Ancel laughed at Ranulf’s startled look. “Indeed, you have not drawn a sober breath for nigh on three days! Is that a record, you think?”

Ranulf glanced at Ancel, then away. Three days lost and he could remember none of it-Jesu! “I suppose I ought to thank you and Gib for making sure I did not do anything crazy-like breaking into another nunnery,” he said, with a grimace of a smile. “Ancel…tell me what happened.”

“When we got to England, Annora was hurting and angry and of a mind to listen when my father proposed the match with Gervase Fitz Clement. I know what you’re thinking, that she did it to spite you, and mayhap that is so, for Annora always did have a hellcat’s temper. But the marriage was the right choice, even if she did make it for the wrong reasons. Gervase is a man of breeding and wealth and influence. As I told you on Monday eve, he is kin to my lord, Simon de Senlis.”

“That I remember,” Ranulf snapped. “What of it?”

“He’ll be able to take good care of Annora, Ranulf. She’ll want for nothing. And he seems right fond of her, seems pleased to have such a lively young wife. His first wife died two years ago, leaving him with three children…and they took to Annora straightaway. Sometimes a second wife loses out when there are children from an earlier marriage. But Gervase has enough to provide well for his heir, and for any sons Annora gives him-”

Ranulf set the goblet down with a thud, sloshing ale onto the table. Annora naked in another man’s bed, bearing his children: the image was so vivid that he gasped. Tears burned his eyes and his throat closed up as he struggled with emotion just as raw and ravaging as physical pain. When he finally won his battle for control, he looked up, shaken, to find Ancel watching him with helpless pity.

“Ranulf, I am truly sorry. But it was for the best, and you’ll come to see that in time. You and Annora are too much alike; your marriage bed would have become a battlefield ere the year was out.”

Ranulf slammed his fist onto the table, a foolish move that triggered so much pain he feared his head would split wide open. “Damn you, shut your mouth!”

Ancel took no offense; in fact, he even looked contrite. An awkward silence fell between them, until Ranulf forced himself to ask, “Is…is she happy?”

Ancel hesitated. “When I saw her at Christmas, three months after her wedding, she seemed content. I’m sorry if that is not what you want to hear…”

Ranulf said nothing, for at that moment, he truly did not know what he’d wanted to hear. Ancel went to fetch more ale, was bringing it back to the table when the door was flung open with a resounding crash. Ranulf winced, turning away from the blaze of light, but Ancel stopped abruptly. “Gilbert? Why are you not in Caen?”

Gilbert strode toward them. “You’ve got to get back to Lisieux, Ancel, and right fast, for your lord is sure to be in a tearing rage. All hell broke loose in Lisieux on Tuesday eve. Stephen’s army fought a bloody battle in the city streets, but not with Geoffrey’s Angevins-it was Normans against Flemings, and they’re still counting the dead!”

“You’re not serious, surely?”

“No, Ancel, I’m jesting. I rode all the way from Caen just for the fun of it! I’m telling you the truth, and have the saddle sores to prove it. A squabble started between several Norman and Flemish soldiers over a wine cask, and it soon became a brawl and then a battle. A lot of men died, and some of the Norman lords were so wroth they abandoned the campaign and rode off-without even seeking Stephen’s permission! Can you imagine anyone defying the old king like that?”

“Only if they had a death wish,” Ranulf said, with his first real smile in three days.

Gilbert reached over, helped himself to Ancel’s ale. “It sounds,” he said, “as if your sister’s luck has finally taken a turn for the better!”

“ I am Ranulf Fitz Roy, and I am here to see my brother, the Earl of Gloucester.”

That was all it took to gain Ranulf entry into Caen Castle. As he followed a guard across the inner bailey toward the keep, he tried to shake off his fatigue, to decide what he would say to Robert. That was no easy task, for he was not even sure why he was here. It had not been planned. He’d told Ancel and Gilbert he was joining Maude in Domfront, but after they’d departed, he’d passed several more utterly aimless days in Falaise. And when he’d finally mounted his horse, he’d found himself heading north instead of south. He’d covered almost all of the twenty miles to Caen before he’d even admitted that was his destination. But he’d realized that he needed more comfort than he could get from wine and whores. Now, as he climbed the stairs to Robert’s solar, it occurred to him that whenever he’d been hurting in the past, he’d turned to Stephen to stanch the bleeding, and he laughed bitterly, earning a curious look from the guard.

Any qualms he’d harbored about his welcome were vanquished at once, dispelled by the warmth in Robert’s surprised smile. Amabel, too, seemed genuinely glad to see him, and he’d not been sure that would be so, for he knew Amabel was less forgiving than Robert. But after one glimpse of his haggard face and bloodshot eyes, she sent a servant down to the kitchen with an order for Ranulf’s favorite foods, and steered him firmly toward a cushioned settle.

Amabel’s charm was undeniable when she chose to exert it, and uniquely her own, by turns flirtatious and maternal, with a tart tongue leavened by easy, earthy laughter, a free spirit securely anchored to reality. She lavished that charm now upon Ranulf, full force, scolding him playfully for sins of omission, teasing him about losing his razor, for his wine-blurred week in Falaise had given him the beginnings of a blond beard. In their society, youths were clean-shaven; men were not. To Robert and Amabel, the sight then, of Ranulf’s new-grown stubble was significant in a symbolic sort of way, proof of passage across that most unsettled of borders, the one dividing boyhood and manhood.

“You’re not drinking your wine, Ranulf. Is it not to your liking?”

Ranulf’s smile was wry. “In truth, Amabel, I’d sooner quaff blood. I had a very wet week, and I’m still drying out.”

Robert nodded sympathetically. “We feared you’d take it hard, lad.”

Ranulf could not hide his surprise. “You know, then?”

“Of course we do. How is Maude bearing up?”

“Maude? What does Maude have to do with Annora’s marriage?”

“Annora?” Amabel drew a quick, comprehending breath. “Your lass wed another man? Ah, Ranulf, I am indeed sorry!”

By now, Ranulf was thoroughly confused and increasingly uneasy. “If you did not know about Annora, what then, did you mean? Why should Maude be distraught? With Stephen’s soldiers spilling their own blood, she has every reason to rejoice. Unless…unless it was not true?”

“No,” Robert assured him, “it is true enough. The feuding between Normans and Flemings flared into violence, and the Earl of Surrey’s son and other Norman lords then withdrew from Lisieux in a rage.”

“Well, then, as I said, Maude has reason to rejoice, for the end is now in sight. When Geoffrey marches on Lisieux, how can Stephen hope to hold him off?”

“Stephen saw that, too, lad. Whatever his failings as a king, he is a seasoned battle commander. He realized that his campaign was in shambles and his throne at risk, and so he made Geoffrey an offer-two thousand marks in return for a two-year truce.”

Ranulf was stunned. “You cannot be saying that Geoffrey agreed?”

“Yes,” Robert said quietly, “he did.”

Ranulf had spared neither his horse nor himself, and they were both exhausted by the time the city walls of Domfront rose up against the sky, high above the River Varenne. The closer he came to Domfront, the more Ranulf dreaded what lay ahead. How could Maude not be shattered by this latest and cruelest of all her betrayals? To have the English crown at last within her reach, only to be snatched away again, this time by the perfidy of her own husband. He could not blame her if she had no more heart for this unequal, unending struggle. But if she admitted defeat, he’d fought-and lost Annora-all for nothing.

Maude was alone in her solar, standing by an open window. The morning light was warm and scented by the gardens below, but it was not kind, accentuating Maude’s pallor, her hollow-eyed fatigue. At sight of Ranulf, though, her sudden smile belied the strain and sleepless nights and thwarted hopes. “You’re back!”

Ranulf stopped short. “You did not doubt it?”

“Of course I did not, Ranulf!” she protested, sounding so surprised and so sincere that he felt a flicker of comfort; at least he’d been able to do that much for her, to gain her trust.

They looked at each other in silence for a moment, and then Ranulf said abruptly, “If there is any justice under God’s sky, that double-dealing Judas will rot in Hell, right alongside Stephen!”

Maude gave him another smile, but this one never reached her eyes. “Give Geoffrey his due, lad. Judas sold his soul for thirty pieces of silver, but Geoffrey turned a much better profit; he extorted two thousand marks from Stephen!”

“What did he say to you, Maude? What justification could he possibly offer?”

“That the price was right, too tempting to refuse. Ah, but he did throw me a few crumbs of comfort. He assured me, you see, that making a truce and honouring it are not necessarily spokes on the same wheel.”

Ranulf swore under his breath. “So what now? We wait on his whim, wait until he gets bored enough or restless enough to resume the war?”

“Yes,” Maude said, very dryly, “that sums it up rather well.”

“And you believe him?”

“I have to, Ranulf,” she said, “I have to…”

Ranulf felt a rush of relief, realizing in that moment just how much he’d feared hearing her say it was done, that he’d sacrificed his happiness with Annora for an elusive, unattainable dream. “You astound me,” he said huskily. “No matter how often these whoresons shove you into the fire, you always rise from the ashes again, just like that mythical bird, the…the phoenix.”

“This time I singed my wings well and good, and lost a few tail feathers, too,” she conceded. “But they’ll grow back.”

They both turned, then, toward the open window, for the sound of “Mama” floated up, clear as a bell, on the mild summer air. Below them, a groom led a dappled grey pony, and sitting proudly in the saddle was a beaming little boy. As soon as they appeared at the window, he waved. “Mama, look! I’m riding Smoky! Watch me, Uncle Ranulf!”

“We’re watching, Henry,” Maude called back. “You’re doing very well!”

“I know,” Henry agreed, with such a cocky grin that Ranulf and Maude both laughed. In coloring, Henry was very much his father’s son, and the sun haloed his reddish-gold hair, windblown and copper-bright. As young as he was, he knew his own mind, and they were not surprised to hear him arguing with the groom, insisting he could handle the reins himself. He was not one for whining, though; he was usually a cheerful, high-spirited child whose most common sins were cheekiness and an insatiable curiosity, sins easy enough to forgive. His younger brother Geoffrey was quick to throw tantrums when he was thwarted, but that was not Henry’s way, and he sought to persuade the groom now with a precocious mix of childish logic and coaxing charm.

“I thought you’d told Henry he could not have a horse of his own until he turned five. What changed your mind, Maude?”

“Geoffrey very helpfully told Henry that he’d learned to ride when he was four. I’ll not deny my heart was in my mouth the first time I saw him lifted into the saddle. But I do Henry no favor by coddling him. I must ever bear that in mind, the hardest lesson a mother has to learn.”

Her dark eyes were following her firstborn as he explored the confines of the garden. “When I was pregnant with Henry,” she said, “I remember being urged to eat these vast meals. Whenever I balked, there was always some meddlesome but well-meaning soul to remind me that I was eating for two. Well, now I am fighting for two, Ranulf. It was not just my birthright Stephen stole; it was Henry’s, too. So…I cannot give up. I will not fail my son as so many have failed me.”

That summer was exceedingly hot, and by September, the crops were shriveling in the fields, rivers running shallow and sluggish, and the roads so cracked and pitted that travelers found themselves choking on clouds of thick red dust. The great hall in Rouen’s castle was stifling, windows unshuttered in the vain hope of drawing in a breeze, attracting only flies and swarms of gnats. But most of the people present were indifferent to the heat and the insects, for their attention was riveted upon the confrontation taking place between the English king and the most powerful-and, therefore, most dangerous-of his barons.

Stephen’s face was flushed with anger. “My lord Earl of Gloucester, you have kept away from my court all summer, agreeing to come only after the Archbishop of Rouen pledged to vouch for your safety. Your suspicions are as outrageous as they are insulting. You’d best explain yourself, if indeed you can!”

“If you want answers, my lord king,” Robert said coldly, “seek them from him.” And he turned, drawing all eyes toward the window seat where William de Ypres was sitting.

The Fleming was not a big man, some inches shorter than Stephen. But he was well muscled, sturdy, and robust, a formidable foe on or off the battlefield. His long hair was streaked with silver, but the color was so fair that the grey was not at once noticeable. Much more conspicuous was a crescent-shaped scar that angled from his left eyebrow up into his hairline; his enemies called it the Devil’s brand. He and Robert had more in common than either man cared to admit. They were the same age, forty-seven, and both labored under the same disadvantage, for both were born out of wedlock.

Robert had fared better, though, than William de Ypres. The Fleming was a bastard son of a Count of Ypres, grandson of a Count of Flanders, and when his cousin was assassinated, he’d pushed his own claim to Flanders. He might even have prevailed, if not for the widespread suspicion that he’d been privy to his cousin’s murder. He’d been forced to flee his homeland, and for the past four years he’d been a trusted member of Stephen’s household. But if Stephen trusted him, few others did, and sentiment in the hall was very much with Robert as Ypres got to his feet without haste, approached the dais with a calculated swagger.

“Ask of me what you will,” he challenged, and Robert swung back toward Stephen, pointing an accusing finger at the Fleming.

“Whilst we were at Argences in June, waiting to do battle with Count Geoffrey of Anjou, this man-your man-plotted to ambush me. Fortunately, I was warned beforehand, and was able to safeguard myself against his treachery. But a man would be a fool to rely upon such luck a second time…would he not, my liege?”

The hall was utterly still. Not a man or woman there failed to hear what Robert left unspoken, the implication that if the deed was Ypres’s, the desire was Stephen’s. Stephen knew what they were thinking; a muscle twitched in his cheek as he looked from Robert to Ypres. “Will? What say you to this accusation?”

Ypres was not at all flustered to find himself in the storm’s center. In fact, he looked as if he relished it. “And was it not convenient, my lord Gloucester, to have an excuse to hole up in Caen, safely above the fray? It would have been awkward, after all, if you’d actually had to fight!”

“Are you questioning my courage?”

“Indeed not, my lord. I am questioning your loyalty.”

Robert was white with fury. “Dare you deny that you plotted to ambush me?”

“No,” Ypres said, and there was a stir in the audience. Matilda stepped unobtrusively from the shadows, lightly touched Stephen’s arm. Her husband did not appear to notice, keeping his eyes locked upon the two men.

The other barons had begun to murmur among themselves. Ypres silenced them with a gesture. “Ere you start building a gallows, I have more to say. I did plot against the Countess of Anjou’s brother. But I was not seeking his death. I aimed to flush him out into the open. It was my hope that he would betray himself, and to judge by the unseemly haste with which he abandoned our campaign, I’d say he did!”

“That is sheer drivel!” Few in the hall had ever seen Robert so angry, for his rage was usually iced over. “Had your scheme gone as planned, you’d have been able to bury your guilt in my grave. But you got unlucky-I survived. If you hope to escape punishment, though, you’ll have to do better than this. You expect us to take your word that you never meant murder? Christ’s Blood, you’ve left a trail of lies from Flanders to Boulogne that a blind man could follow!”

“What vexes you the most, my lord earl? That I took steps to smoke you out? Or that I reminded men of a fact you would rather we forgot-your blood kinship to a woman who is our king’s sworn enemy?”

“Enough!” Stephen got to his feet, striding toward the edge of the dais. “You’ve both had your say. Hurling insults and accusations at each other serves for naught. My lord of Gloucester, I can understand your anger. Whatever my lord de Ypres’s intent, he had not the right to put your loyalty to a test. It was an unfortunate incident, but it is over now, and best forgotten. As I am responsible for what is done in my name, I offer you my apology.”

To Robert, that was too little, too late. “I accept your apology,” he said, with perfunctory courtesy. “But what of Ypres? What penalty does he pay?”

“That is for me to decide. But you need not fear, for it will never happen again. On that, you have my oath.”

Robert’s mouth thinned. “I have your oath?” The words themselves were innocuous, but with a rising inflection, they became a sardonic commentary upon the king’s credibility.

“Yes, by God, my oath-the oath of a crowned, anointed king!” Stephen stalked down the dais steps, and Matilda held her breath, for a long-smoldering fire seemed about to burst into a hellish conflagration. Her relief knew no bounds when Robert chose not to strike that fatal flint, and she sat down hastily in the closest seat, so disquieted she did not even notice it was Stephen’s throne.

Stephen’s triumph was so fleeting, though, that he had no chance to savor it. As enraged as he was by Robert’s oblique defiance, he would not have let it fester, for if the voice was Robert’s, the hostility was Maude’s, and was thus easy to shrug off. But when he turned toward their audience, he was jolted by what he saw on so many faces: the same skepticism, the same doubt that his word was good. And standing there in the great hall of Rouen’s royal castle, he suddenly realized a very unpalatable truth: that most men might recognize him as England’s king, but they no longer saw him as a man of honour.

Matilda could not sleep unless she was sure that her children slept, too, and cupping her candle, she bent over the bed. They were sprawled in an ungainly tangle, legs and arms protruding at odd angles, as flaxen-haired as their father; Eustace had claimed both pillows, and William had fallen asleep sucking his thumb again. Smiling, she gently tucked the blankets about them, for she had at last banished Baldwin’s ghost from the nursery, no longer saw his curly blond head on the pillow beside his brothers’. Not a day passed when she did not think of him, her firstborn, taken too soon. She’d had two years, though, to come to terms with his loss. But her little girl’s grave was too newly dug, for they had buried her in ground frozen and snow-encrusted, last winter’s grief, too recent and raw for healing. Matilda straightened up slowly, backed quietly away from the bed where her sons slept, while whispering, soft as a breath, as she did every night, “Blessed Mary Ever Virgin, keep my lads safe, spare them hurt or harm, Amen.”

Her daughter stirred as soon as she approached the bed, mumbling a sleepy “Mama?” Matilda sat beside her, lifting the child onto her lap. When Mary began to nuzzle her breast, she opened her gown and let the little girl suckle. She had not nursed her older children, for women of rank were expected to hire wet nurses. But she had insisted upon nursing Mary, despite Stephen’s objections, prompted by feelings she could not fully explain, a need that was somehow related to her grieving for Baldwin. Whatever her reasons, she had cause to be thankful for her obstinacy, for the intimacy of that physical bonding with her baby when God suddenly took her other daughter, her namesake, just days away from her second birthday.

Mary had been a godsend, solace for her empty, aching arms, balm for her buffeted and bleeding faith. She knew hers was a common grief, knew how often children died in their first fragile years of life. She knew, too, that it was not for her to question the mysterious workings of the Almighty. But God had reclaimed two of her children; what if He wanted the others, too? And so she had decided to give Him one, to give Him Mary.

Stephen had resisted at first, for daughters were a king’s political capital; many an alliance had been forged in the heat of the marriage bed. Their little Tilda had been buried with a betrothal ring, having been plight-trothed to Waleran Beaumont a few months before her death. But his wife’s entreaties had soon won Stephen over; he’d reluctantly agreed that Mary would be pledged as a nun. And Matilda, mourning her dead daughter, was comforted, for surely Mary would find contentment in the cloistered peace of the convent. As a Bride of Christ, her salvation would be assured, her happiness more certain than as a bartered bride for a Waleran Beaumont or a Geoffrey of Anjou.

Once she’d rocked Mary back to sleep, Matilda headed for the stairwell that led up to her own bedchamber. The room was shuttered and still, and she wondered why it had not been made ready for her. Raising her candle, she moved toward the table, then recoiled at a sudden movement in the shadows. “Stephen? You scared me so! Why are you sitting here in the dark?”

He shrugged, saying nothing. Matilda subjected him to a candlelit scrutiny, and then retraced her steps to the door, where she discreetly dismissed the servant just entering with an oil lamp. She’d not expected this, that he should still be brooding about his clash with Robert of Gloucester; he’d always been one for living utterly in the present, with little patience for sifting through yesterday’s mistakes, even less interest in borrowing tomorrow’s troubles. Crossing to his chair, she tried to massage away the tension coiled in the muscles of his neck and shoulders.

“Have you decided what you shall do about William de Ypres, Stephen?”

“Nothing,” he said wearily. “How can I in good conscience punish him for reading my mind? He was wrong to act upon his suspicions, but they were mine, too. Anytime now I expect to find Brother Robert perched on the foot of my bed, watching to see if I stop breathing in the night. He is worse than a vulture, though, Tilda. At least they do not begin their deathwatch until their prey is down and floundering. Robert-damn his eyes-began his vigil as soon as he set foot in my realm.”

Matilda sighed softly. “He will like it not if you refuse to chastise Ypres.”

“Even if I did lesson Ypres, Robert would still find fault with it. Nothing I do would satisfy him-short of abdicating my throne in favor of his wretched sister.”

Matilda’s fingers had stopped moving, lay still against the nape of his neck. It worried her in no small measure, his failure to make peace with Robert. She blamed them both, Robert for being so stiff-necked and self-righteous, Stephen for being so defensive and suspicious, so unwilling to bid for Robert’s allegiance. Had the power only been hers, she’d have lavished Robert with royal favor; she’d have done whatever she could to give him compelling reasons for wanting Stephen’s kingship to succeed. But try though she might, she’d not been able to mute the echoes of their lifelong rivalry, and could only watch with foreboding as the rift between them widened. If Robert of Gloucester repudiated Stephen’s authority and openly declared himself for his sister, would his defection cause a few earth tremors…or an earthquake?

She’d rarely heard Stephen sound so disheartened. “I was proud of you today,” she said, “proud of the way you took responsibility for Ypres’s plotting. That was a forthright and courageous act, love.”

He shrugged again, and then surprised her by saying, “The old king would not have apologized.”

“Mayhap he would not,” she agreed, somewhat hesitantly, for she was not sure where he was going with this. “But it was right, Stephen, and honourable, and what else matters?”

“You are such an innocent,” he said, and rose abruptly to his feet. “I tried to do what was ‘right and honourable’ at the siege of Exeter; you remember, Tilda? Baldwin de Redvers’s wife came out to plead for mercy, hair streaming down her back, feet bare like one doing penance, face wet with tears. A man would have had a heart of flint if he were not moved by her pleas. And then Redvers’s fellow barons added their voices, arguing for clemency. So I agreed to pardon Redvers, I freed the garrison, and I was glad to do it. Even after Redvers then turned to piracy and fled the country, finding refuge with Maude, I was not sorry I spared them. I thought I’d done the right thing, and that was enough. But not for my barons. They’ve been laughing at me ever since, mocking me for showing mercy, for showing weakness-and this from the very same men who’d argued on Redvers’s behalf!”

“Even if that is so,” Matilda said, “you followed your conscience. What more can a man do than that, Stephen?”

“I do not know,” he admitted. “That is just the trouble, Matilda, I do not know!”

She was on her feet now, too, reaching out to him. “I’ve never heard you talk like this. What has happened?”

“I had a rightful claim to the English throne. It was no usurpation, for I was the old king’s favorite nephew, grandson of the great William the Bastard of Normandy. None wanted a woman on the throne, you know they did not. And I was urged to it, by men who rejoiced that I’d be sparing them-and England-untold misery. My oath to Maude meant nothing, writ on water, they said. But in breaking that oath, I became less in their eyes. Where is the fairness in that?”

“Ah, Stephen…” Matilda got no further, not knowing what to say.

“I looked out across that hall today, and I realized that I could trust none of them. None of them, Matilda!”

“Surely that is not so! What of your brother and the Beaumont twins?”

“Ah, yes, my faithful brother. How faithful do you think he’ll be if I do not set that archbishop’s mitre upon his head? And the Beaumonts will stay loyal-as long as they benefit from that loyalty. But do not fool yourself, Matilda-they’d go over to Maude without a qualm if she could come up with a big enough bribe. Even William de Ypres is suspect, for when a man’s loyalty is for sale to the highest bidder, there is always a risk of being outbid.”

He turned at her touch, looked down bleakly into her face. “No one I can trust, Tilda,” he repeated, and then pulled her to him, holding her against his chest, so close she could hear the thudding of his heart. “Only you,” he said softly, “only you…”