He sounded angry, but she did not need to see blood to know she’d inflicted a heart wound. Tears filled her eyes. “Sometimes,” she said softly. “Sometimes I do…”
The summer was hot and dry and discouraging for those who believed in Maude’s cause. Geoffrey was faced with a rebellion in Anjou, led by his own brother. In England, Robert suffered a political defeat and a personal calamity when Faringdon Castle fell to Stephen. Robert had built Faringdon, strategically situated on the London- Bristol Road, at the behest of his son Philip, who hoped to cut communications between Stephen’s garrisons at Malmesbury and Oxford. But that July Stephen laid bloody siege to Faringdon, and when Robert was unable to come to the beleaguered stronghold’s aid, Philip was so enraged that he defected to Stephen.
Despite such setbacks-or perhaps because of them-Maude kept a particularly lavish Christmas court that year. The great hall of Devizes Castle was ablaze with candlelight and swirling color, for another carol was beginning. Standing on the steps of the dais, Ranulf watched the dancers whirl by. Familiar faces, the stars in Maude’s firmament.
Rainald and Beatrice had come from Cornwall, and were harvesting a crop of congratulations, for Beatrice had given birth that summer to their first child. Rainald had confided to Ranulf his disappointment that it was a lass and not a son, but he’d wasted no time suggesting to Baldwin de Redvers that his infant daughter would make an ideal bride for Baldwin’s young heir. Rainald was now dancing with such exuberant verve that Ranulf assumed Baldwin had been amenable to the proposal. Beatrice was not in the carol circle, but Ranulf had seen her earlier that evening, drifting about in the shadows. Motherhood had not anchored her to reality any more than marriage, he thought sadly, for she seemed as unsubstantial to him as a puff of smoke.
Robert and Amabel were not dancing; they were sitting together in a window seat, more like spectators than participants in the Christmas revelries. Although all were taking great care to make no mention of Philip, he was the uninvited guest at dinner, the unwelcome intruder in their midst, his betrayal the unspoken topic of conversation. None might ask Robert outright, but people still wondered and speculated. Even those like Ranulf, who knew of Philip’s troubled relationship with his father, did not understand what had driven him to an act so desperate and so despicable. Ranulf doubted that Robert understood, either.
When the carol ended, the dancers continued to mill about, awaiting the next one. Patrick Fitz Walter and John Marshal were nearby, exchanging mordant banter; marriage may have made them allies, but not friends. John Marshal’s new wife stood beside them, smiling placidly at their verbal sparring. She was not as handsome as Marshal’s discarded wife, but she was undoubtedly fertile; Marshal had been bragging to one and all that his bride was already pregnant. Ranulf wondered if the Lady Sybil’s complacency was due to that early pregnancy; if so, she must be conveniently forgetting that the cast-off Adelina had borne Marshal two sons. But then, Sybil was an earl’s sister, and just as that fact explained her marriage, it also guaranteed its survival.
While Marshal’s new marriage had made him an object of curiosity, Brien Fitz Count was the one attracting the most attention, the heartiest congratulations, and the most lavish-if puzzled-praise. Brien had just proved that he could wield a pen as well as a sword on Maude’s behalf; he had written a political treatise in support of her quest for the crown, marshaling arguments like armies as he sought to discredit Stephen’s kingship. He was, of course, preaching to the converted, but his efforts had been well received even by men of scholarly bent, such as Gilbert Foliot, the erudite abbot of Gloucester’s great abbey. The others were impressed, but bemused, too, by Brien’s foray into such alien territory; with the exception of Robert and himself, Ranulf doubted if there was a man in the hall who’d even read a book in its entirety certainly not for pleasure. Tonight, though, they were all claiming to have read Brien’s, counting upon his good manners to keep him from putting them to the test.
Watching as Brien shrugged off compliments with self-deprecating humor, Ranulf felt sympathy stirring, for he knew only one opinion mattered to Brien; his book may have been offered to the world, but it was meant for Maude. She had already thanked him, circumspectly, for his wife had accompanied him to Devizes and never strayed far from his side. It occurred to Ranulf that Brien’s renowned courtesy was camouflage for a profoundly unhappy man. There had always been a streak of melancholy in his nature, even in the best of times. How must it be for him now-a man of honour forced outside the law to feed his people, an idealist with no faith in his fellow men, ruining himself for a woman he could never have and a cause that, however worthy, was soaking England in blood.
Ranulf drew in his breath sharply; looking into the depths of Brien’s soul, he’d looked, too, into his own. He at once repudiated the vision. It was true that smoldering images of Cantebrigge had not faded from his memory. But as much as he lamented the suffering of the English people, he still believed Maude’s cause was just, her war could be won. And he and Annora would not be like Brien and Maude, lovers left with nothing but regrets for what might have been. No, by God, that would not be their fate, too. He would not let himself lose hope, not like Annora.
Ranulf could not deny, though, that his mood was far from festive. Sometimes he could feel his faith slipping away from him, and he feared the day when he could not hold on. It was no coincidence that he framed his thoughts in Annora’s words; six months afterward, he was still haunted by her confession, her miscarriage, and the realization that she had wanted the child-even if it were not his. Looking around for a wine bearer, he took refuge, instead, in the happiness of a friend, hastening over to join Gilbert Fitz John and his wife.
Even a stranger could have guessed that Gilbert and Ella were newly wedded, for the glow had yet to fade. Often a landless knight was never able to wed, unable to provide for a family. But Gilbert’s marriage had been made possible by Ranulf’s persuasive tongue and Maude’s generosity. Unable to bestow an earldom upon her youngest brother, she had compensated as best she could by giving him lands under her control in Wiltshire. When he’d asked for a manor on Gilbert’s behalf, she had agreed, and Gilbert and Ella were wed in November, just before Advent. Gilbert’s bride was so like him that they could have been siblings. Ella was as good-natured and practical and easily satisfied as her new husband, and they were mirror images-male and female-of each other, both of them fair- skinned, freckled redheads, tall and sturdy and perfectly matched.
“Why so downhearted?” Gilbert asked before Ranulf even opened his mouth; he’d always been able to read Ranulf with ease. “The news from Anjou is not bad?”
“Not at all. Geoffrey swiftly put down the rebellion and he’s now giving his rebel barons reasons aplenty to rue their folly. Apparently Helie thought he’d be able to talk his way out of trouble, but Geoffrey has never been one for forgiveness. He cast Helie into a dungeon at Tours, and is likely to keep him there until Helie goes grey…
He seemed to lose track of his thoughts, and his sentence trailed off. Following his gaze, Gilbert saw that he was staring at a newcomer to the hall. “You know that man, Ranulf?”
“Yes, I do. He is in my niece’s service.”
Gilbert was astute about shaded meanings. “You are saying he is loyal to her, not Chester?”
Ranulf nodded. “Maud has her own attendants, most of whom came with her from Robert’s household at the time of her marriage. They are utterly devoted to her, none more so than Nicholas. I’m surprised that she’d give him so simple a task as delivering a letter to her parents. He always seemed the sort,” Ranulf joked, “to be skulking around at midnight on life-or-death missions.”
As they watched, Nicholas was ushered toward Robert and Amabel. Within moments, it was obvious that something was wrong. When Robert started toward Maude, Ranulf hastened to intercept him. But before Ranulf could speak, Robert said in an urgent undertone, “Not now, lad. Meet me in my chamber after the guests have gone to bed. And till then, say nothing.”
That was hardly reassuring. Ranulf watched uneasily as Robert drew Maude aside for a brief colloquy, one that left her looking tense and preoccupied. When he sought her out he got only a whispered, “Not here, Ranulf… later.” After that, Ranulf could only wait and worry.
Ranulf was puzzled by the composition of the after-hours council: Robert and Amabel, Maude, Rainald, and Brien. If Robert’s news was a family matter, why include Brien? And if it was political, why were Baldwin de Redvers and John Marshal and Roger Fitz Miles excluded?
Robert was leaning back against a trestle table, Amabel at his side. “I know my behavior must have seemed odd tonight, but what I have to tell you cannot leave this chamber. Until it is common knowledge, we can say nothing, lest my daughter be put at risk. She has sent us a secret warning. After the Christmas revelries, the Earl of Chester and his brother are journeying to the town of Stanford, there to make their peace with Stephen.”
Rainald swore explosively. Brien was close enough for Ranulf to hear him suck in his breath, but he said nothing, keeping his eyes upon Robert and Maude. Ranulf was astounded, for he knew, if any man did, how much Chester scorned Stephen. “Why? Why now?”
“Maud says that after Faringdon Castle fell, Chester concluded that Stephen cannot be overthrown. He decided to make the best deal he could, whilst Stephen still needed him as an ally.” Robert’s shoulders had
