his side, some of them might be more willing to accept his lordship. I do not doubt that he’ll be lavish with his promises, but I do doubt that we’ll ever see him set foot on English soil.”
It was unlike Robert to be so imprudent; speaking out so harshly in public about a man they needed to win over was impolitic at best. There could be no more convincing proof of Robert’s discontent than this uncharacteristic outburst, and the men exchanged disappointed glances, seeing yet another opportunity slipping away from them.
Once again it was Miles who gave voice to their misgivings. “I daresay you are right, Robert, to suspect the man’s good faith. But a reed-thin chance is still better than none, and if you do not even try to persuade him, we’ll never know if you might have prevailed or not. I urge you to think again ere you refuse.”
“There is no need for that,” Maude said, sounding very tired. “Robert has agreed to go.”
“Yes,” Robert said tersely, making no effort to hide his frustration. “Geoffrey has left me no choice. So…I will sail for Normandy and I will do my utmost to gain his support. But I expect-nay, demand-something from all of you in return. Whilst I am gone, I want your sworn oaths that you will see to the safety of my sister, let her come to no harm.”
They responded without hesitation, promising to protect Maude in Robert’s absence. Maude said nothing, but hot blood scalded her face and throat. Ranulf noticed, understood, and sympathized, for he knew how she hated any reminder of her special vulnerability as a woman. He was impressed now by her restraint, for it was not so long ago that she would have rebuked Robert sharply for shaming her by his unwanted solicitude, however well meant. But she was not the same woman who’d blundered so badly that she’d gotten herself chased out of her own capital city. She had learned from her mistakes. It seemed bitterly unfair to Ranulf that she had learned too late. They could not give up, though. It might be too late for Maude, but not for her young son. They must do whatever it would take to claim the English crown for Henry-even if that meant doing the bidding of Maude’s hated Angevin husband.
Matilda was very glad to be back in London; more and more, it seemed a haven from the troubles besetting the rest of her husband’s realm. On this morning in early July, she was performing one of her more pleasurable duties as queen: bestowing largesse upon the neediest of her subjects. Her servants loaded a cart with jars of honey, sacks of flour, baskets of eggs, loaves of bread, woolen blankets, even a few toys-whipping tops and balls. Matilda then mounted her favorite white mule, and she and Cecily and her escort set out to deliver her bounty to London’s two hospitals.
St Giles in the Fields was a leper hospital just outside the city walls, founded by a queen, Maude’s mother. Matilda felt great pity for those poor souls afflicted with such a fearful malady, although she found it exceedingly difficult to look upon their dreadful deformities. But she forced herself to smile and show none of her revulsion when they came forward to thank her, and afterward she confided to Cecily her awed admiration for Maude’s mother, who had kissed lepers and washed their ulcerated sores with her own hands to demonstrate they were still beloved by God.
Cecily agreed that such a woman well deserved to be known as Good Queen Maude, although she could not help adding mischievously that it explained much about the Empress Maude, child of such a disparate mating-a notorious lecher and an earthly saint. Matilda laughed, commenting that Stephen’s parents were surely an oddly matched pair, too, but then her smile faded, for she found herself thinking of yet another incompatible couple-her brash young son Eustace and Constance, his timid French bride.
From St Giles, Matilda continued on to the hospital of St Bartholomew, situated next to the Augustinian priory of the same name in West Smithfield. St Bartholomew took in the needy and orphans as well as the sick, and it was for the orphans that Matilda had brought tops and balls. Her own children had puppets and wooden swords and dolls and whistles. But toys were a luxury, and she knew the skinny, solemn youngsters at St Bart’s were unlikely to have had any but makeshift playthings-scraps of rope and stones and hollow reeds. She was warmly welcomed by the hospital’s master and nuns, but the memory she took away with her was of the shrieks and laughter of boys playing with their first real ball, a pig’s bladder filled with dried beans.
They reentered the city through Cripplegate, headed back toward the Tower. Matilda’s progress was a slow one, for people flocked to her as she passed by, seeking to find out if the king was fully recovered from his near- fatal fever. If the questions directed at her were occasionally intrusive or overly familiar, Matilda did not object; had the Londoners not been so forthright and cocky, they never would have dared to defy Maude. And so she waved and smiled and assured them that the king was on the mend, of good cheer, and eager to take up the reins of kingship again.
Just how eager Stephen was, she was soon to discover. Upon her arrival at the Tower, she hastened up to the royal apartments on the top floor of the soaring, whitewashed keep. There she found her husband sitting around a table with his brother and William de Ypres and William Martel, his steward. They had a large map spread out before them, but that was not what caught Matilda’s attention; it was the charged atmosphere, one of barely suppressed excitement. “You look,” she said, “like foxes who’ve just found a way into the hen roost. What has happened that I do not yet know about?”
There was a time when she would never have spoken up so boldly, but now she did not even hesitate, taking it for granted that she had earned the right to share in their decision making. And of the men, only the bishop thought her candid curiosity was unseemly, but even he held his tongue, tacitly acknowledging that Matilda would not be retreating back into the shadows. For better or worse, he conceded, hers had become a voice to be heeded.
“We have gotten some very interesting news, Tilda.” Stephen leaned back in his chair, smiling at her. “Maude’s brother has gone to Normandy to meet with Geoffrey. Robert sailed for Barfleur a week ago.”
“Leaving the hen roost unguarded,” William de Ypres said happily. “I never thought I’d owe Geoffrey of Anjou such a debt of gratitude!”
Matilda’s first reaction was unease. Stephen might be ready for the rigors and risks of an active campaign, but she was not; her memories of his Northampton illness were still too raw. But she did not confess her qualms, for fear was a wife’s burden, to be borne alone. “What are you planning?” she asked, and Stephen beckoned her toward the map.
“Robert sailed from there-from Wareham-putting his firstborn in command. But the son is not the man his father is, and he promptly went back to the greater comforts of Bristol, leaving the castle poorly garrisoned. If we capture it, we can deny Robert a safe port for his return.”
“Where is Maude now…still at Devizes?”
“No, she is back at Oxford Castle, with Miles Fitz Walter, Baldwin de Redvers, and Ranulf, amongst others, keeping a close watch upon her. Robert seems to have been so worried about her safety that I’d almost think he had second sight!”
Matilda did not share Stephen’s smile. “That does not sound like an unguarded hen roost to me.”
“No…not yet. Maude is well served at the moment. That is why I do not plan to besiege Oxford after we capture Wareham. No, there is our next target,” he said, “Cirencester. For however devoted Maude’s men are to her, they’re not likely to stay cooped up at Oxford if their own lands in the west are threatened. My raid on Cirencester will draw them away from Oxford, and then,” Stephen said, with a grim resolve he’d not often shown, “we take Maude captive and end this accursed war once and for all.”
25
Oxford, England
September 1142
Oxford, like Winchester, had two royal residences, the eleventh-century castle by the river and the “king’s house” just north of the city walls. The latter was the more comfortable of the two, but Maude always chose to stay at the castle, for its castellan, Robert d’Oilly, was a loyal supporter and kin by marriage, his stepson being one of Maude’s numerous half-brothers.
Even by English standards, it had been an unusually wet summer and autumn. But this 26th day of September dawned dry and clear and mild. Ranulf was standing on the steps of the great hall, savoring the sun as men passed in and out of the bailey. More riders were coming in, a dozen or more-not an uncommon sight these
