last week in September. As glad as she was to be reunited with her brothers, she found it strange to be at Gloucester Castle without Miles.
This was her first visit since Roger had inherited his father’s earldom of Hereford, and he entertained Maude far more lavishly than Miles had ever done, which only underscored the differences between the brusque, frugal, pragmatic father and his extravagant, impulsive, fun-loving son. Roger was as quick-tempered as Miles, and like his father, he was fearless on the battlefield. He had inherited the same russet coloring, too, although he was handsomer than the rough-hewn, freckled Miles. But he lacked his father’s mettle, the flinty force of character that had made Miles such a formidable ally, a man to be reckoned with. The better Maude got to know Roger, the more she liked him-and the more she missed Miles.
She also missed Rainald and Brien, for she’d seen neither one for months. Rainald was still in Cornwall, fighting a dogged, lonely battle to defend his imperiled earldom. And Brien was equally hard pressed, for since the fall of Oxford, Wallingford had become a beleaguered island in a hostile sea, a target for frequent attacks and sporadic sieges by the king’s men. So far Brien was grimly holding on, but his tenants could no longer till their fields or harvest their crops, and he staved off utter ruin only by seizing the provisions he needed to keep Wallingford going. His loyalty was costing him dearly, and Maude wanted to help him so badly that it was like a hollow, empty ache, but there was little she could do.
After supper, the conversation focused upon the continuing depredations by Geoffrey de Mandeville and his lawless band. The men had news that Maude had not yet learned: Mandeville had been wounded in late August while besieging Burwell, one of the castles Stephen had thrown up to keep him in the Fens. It was a hot day and when he rashly removed his helmet, he’d been struck by an arrow. But once again he’d had Lucifer’s own luck, Robert reported, for they’d heard the wound was not serious. Mandeville would soon be on the prowl again, unless Stephen took more aggressive action to bring him to bay.
They were in agreement, though, that Stephen would not do so. Maude put it most trenchantly: “Stephen ought never to have let Mandeville elude him in the Fens. Blockading the marshes with castles was the easy way- ever Stephen’s way. But my father would have followed Mandeville into the very bowels of Hell if need be.” She paused, then, her eyes coming to rest upon her brother. “So would you, Robert,” she said, and he smiled in surprise.
“You are right about our father,” he agreed. “He’d never have allowed a rebel to escape his wrath, no matter how long it took to track him down. But Stephen has the attention span of a summer dragonfly. He alights, begins a siege, loses interest, and flits away in search of a new target. Only twice has he mustered up enough patience to flush out his prey-when he lay siege to Baldwin de Redvers’s castle at Exeter and then at Oxford, when he thought he had you trapped, Maude. I suppose we ought to be thankful, though, that he is so easily distracted, else Wallingford-and mayhap even my castle at Bristol-might have fallen to him by now.”
In the past, Ranulf would have defended Stephen. Even if he’d not spoken up, he’d have wanted to. But that was before he’d ridden into the smoking ruins of Cantebrigge. Rising abruptly, he glanced about for Loth, found the dog scratching in the floor rushes under the table, hoping to unearth a dropped morsel or discarded bone. Whistling for the dyrehund, Ranulf let him out into the castle bailey.
When he returned to the hall, the gathering had broken up into smaller groups. Amabel was conversing with Roger’s young wife, Cecily, and Sybil, Miles’s widow. Robert and Maude were talking with Gilbert Foliot, the abbot of Gloucester’s great monastery of St Peter’s. Across the hall, Roger was sharing a joke with Hugh de Plucknet, or so Ranulf assumed, for they were laughing. Closer at hand, Gilbert Fitz John had begun a game of tables with Alexander de Bohun, and Ranulf wandered over to watch his friend play. It was not long, though, before Hugh was beckoning to him.
“How would you fancy a foray into the town?” Hugh asked as soon as he and Ranulf were alone in the window seat. “Earl Roger says there is a new bawdy-house on Here Lane, just beyond the North Gate. You want to come with us after the women and Abbot Gilbert go up to bed?”
Ranulf raised an eyebrow, for he believed a husband owed his wife discretion, if not fidelity, and chasing after whores within shouting distance of Roger’s own castle seemed a foolproof way to set the entire town gossiping, gossip sure to find its way back to Cecily’s ears. He could not help glancing across the hall at Cecily, a plump, pretty girl with a throaty giggle, not yet twenty and already six years a wife. Although Ranulf would never shame Annora like this once they were finally able to wed, he decided that Roger was old enough-at twenty-one-to master his own conscience.
“Why not?” he said, and when he next caught Roger’s eye, he nodded to convey his interest in taking a tour of Gloucester’s best whorehouse. Roger grinned and began to drop such heavy-handed hints about the lateness of the hour that Ranulf and Hugh dared not look at each other, lest they burst out laughing.
Fortunately, indications were pointing to an early evening. Robert had begun to yawn and once Amabel noticed, she’d shepherd her sleepy husband up to bed. Cecily was still much too bright-eyed and chipper, but Maude was more promising, for a messenger had just arrived from Devizes, bearing a letter. She seemed so pleased that Ranulf knew the letter must be from her son or Brien, and as she excused herself to read it, he signaled to Roger and Hugh that they’d soon be on their way.
And indeed, Sybil was already bidding her family and guests goodnight. Robert and Amabel were starting to follow when Maude cried out, turning all heads in her direction. “Do not go, Robert, not yet. I’ve news you must hear.” Maude glanced again at the letter in her hand. “Geoffrey de Mandeville is dead.”
As they all crowded in close to hear, she told them what Brien had written. “Brien says that either Mandeville’s wound was more serious then he claimed or it festered. Whichever, that was an arrow directed by God, for he died a fortnight ago.”
There was a somber silence after that, for damnation was much more fearful than death, even when the man deserved it as much as Geoffrey de Mandeville did. He’d died excommunicate, and even a deathbed repentance was denied him, for the Bishop of Winchester had decreed in his waning days as a papal legate that only the Pope could absolve a man guilty of crimes against the Church.
They all knew, of course, that an excommunicate could sometimes escape his dreadful fate, for Miles had. He, too, had died accursed by the Church, cast out after a bitter clash with the Bishop of Hereford. But he’d had a powerful advocate in his cousin Gilbert Foliot, and after he was struck down on that ill-fated Christmas Eve hunt, the monks of Gloucester had quarreled with the canons of Llanthony Priory over which House would have the honour of burying him.
But they all knew, too, that there would be no such reprieve for Geoffrey de Mandeville. No priest would speak up for him. None would offer prayers for his salvation. His body would lie unclaimed, unable to be buried in consecrated ground. His title and lands would be forfeit, his family shamed. His name would be anathema, a curse to frighten children. And his soul would be forever lost to God, damned to the hottest flames of perdition.
No one spoke for a time. It was left to Ranulf to pronounce Geoffrey de Mandeville’s epitaph. None of them had ever heard him sound as he did now, implacable and unforgiving. “Even if Mandeville burns in Hell for all eternity,” he said, “that would not be long enough to atone for his sins.”
31
Chester, England
June 1145
The Benedictine abbey of St Werbergh held a three-day fair every year upon the Nativity of St John the Baptist. It was not a gainful time for the merchants of Chester; they were not allowed to sell their wares for the duration of the fair. But the monks profited handsomely from the rental of the booths and stalls set up in front of the abbey’s Great Gate, and people flocked to the fair from all over Cheshire.
The Earl of Chester was not present to open the fair, but his countess acted in his stead, and was warmly welcomed by the monks, for the earl was a generous benefactor to the religious houses in his domains. His enemies jeered that Chester knew his only hope of ever getting to Heaven was to buy his way in, but whatever his motives, the monks were appreciative of his bounty and lavished enough courtesy upon Maud to satisfy a queen.
Maud reveled in the attention, chatting with the merchants, making an occasional purchase as she wandered among the booths, scattering alms to the beggars and children following in her wake, and appearing not to notice
