that was the approved method of educating youths of good birth. That past November he’d turned fourteen, and Robert had then assumed responsibility for the next stage of his schooling, in which he would learn about horses and weapons and the art of war. Stephen was quite fond of the boy, an affection Ranulf returned in full measure, and their reunion was highly pleasing to them both. But night had fallen some time ago, and Matilda had long since gone up to bed. Stephen soon excused himself and did likewise.
Matilda was already asleep, but when Stephen drew her into his arms, she snuggled drowsily into his embrace. He kissed the corner of her mouth, then the pulse in her throat, and her lashes quivered. “I’ve been told,” he murmured, “that there is a good-hearted lady here who never turns a needy stranger away from her door. What are my chances of getting what I need?”
“I’d say just fair to middling.” But he felt Matilda smiling against his neck, and when he caught hold of her blonde braid, she took it back, then tickled his nose with the tip.
“My cousin Robert arrived after you went above-stairs.” He bent over, licking the soft hollow of her elbow. “He is on his way to visit Maude at Le Mans. Her father wants to know how she is faring, for Robert says she has been ailing, that her pregnancy has not been an easy one.”
Matilda was wide awake by now. “You and Henry were in the solar for a long time. Once or twice I thought about coming to your rescue, but I could not think of an excuse he’d find credible.”
“Next time, love, claim the castle is on fire,” Stephen suggested, and she laughed softly, entwining her fingers in his chest hair and tugging gently. There were few secrets between them, for theirs was that most fortunate of unions, a marriage of state that was also a genuine love match. But he’d yet to tell her of past “crown conversations” with Henry, and he did not tell her of this latest one, either, although he could not have explained- even to his own satisfaction-why he kept silent.
Matilda was still smiling, her lips invitingly parted, and he lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss was a long one, no longer playful. But he surprised her, then, by saying, “I think we ought to ride along with Robert. He says Maude’s time is almost nigh, and I doubt she is getting much comfort from Geoffrey.”
Matilda doubted it, too, and was sorry that Maude’s marriage was so unhappy. But she still did not want to go to Le Mans. She and Maude were first cousins, for their mothers had been sisters; their uncle David was the current King of Scotland. They were linked as well by Matilda’s marriage to Stephen. But there was no friendship between them; they were too unlike for that. Moreover, Matilda was eager to return to Boulogne, where their young sons awaited them. “If you truly want to go, Stephen…”
“But you would rather not,” he said, not fooled by her dutiful denial. “I do think I ought to go, love.” He hesitated, unable to explain why he felt this urgent need to offer Maude support. “But you are not obliged to go with me. You could await me here at Chartres, or…or you could ride south to Marcigny and pass a few days with my mother.”
Matilda could not hide her dismay; she was thoroughly intimidated by her formidable mother-in-law. “If that is truly your wish…,” she began gamely, but then the deferential wife gave way to the suspicious one, and she raised up to look sharply into his face. “That,” she cried, “was a cruel joke,” and she yanked his pillow away, hit him with it.
Stephen was laughing too hard to offer an effective defense, and Matilda soon pummeled him into submission. Flushed and triumphant, she rolled over into his arms again. “I will go with you to visit Maude if it means that much to you. I will go wherever you desire, my lord husband,” she said, and heaved a mock martyr’s sigh before adding, “except to the nunnery at Marcigny!”
Stephen laughed again, then reached up and drew the bed-hangings snug around their bed, shutting out the world.
Maude was delighted to have company in these last weeks of her pregnancy. She was always glad to see Robert, who’d done his best to mend her rift with their father. She was quite fond of Ranulf. And Stephen was not just her cousin; he was one of the few men with whom she could let down her guard. She was even pleased for once to see Matilda, for Matilda had borne Stephen two children, knew what to expect in the birthing chamber.
Maude believed in being well prepared for any eventuality, but her own memories of childbirth were clouded as much by grief as by the passage of time. All she remembered with clarity was the pain afterward, once she’d been told that her son’s life had been measured in but a few feeble breaths, a fading heartbeat. Minna was no help, for her marriage had been barren. And when Maude had asked other women, all too often they had assumed an indulgent tone that she found infuriating: the battle-seasoned soldier spinning war stories to awe the raw recruit. While Maude had never liked her shy, soft-spoken cousin, she felt confident that condescension was not one of Matilda’s character flaws.
Robert had brought Maude a letter from their father, the warmest letter she’d gotten in some time. He was not a man to forgive easily, but it seemed that he was willing to let bygones be bygones now that Maude was back with Geoffrey where she belonged, and about to give birth to his grandchild. Maude was very resentful of his judgmental attitude; the letter pleased her, though, in spite of herself. After supper, she played chess with Robert, persuaded Stephen to teach her a popular dice game, and had a quiet talk with Matilda, who was able to reassure her that the pains she’d been having in recent days were quite normal and no cause for concern. It was one of the most pleasant evenings Maude had passed in months, and she even unbent enough to let her young brother Ranulf feel her baby’s kicking. There was only one shadow cast over their gathering: Geoffrey’s conspicuous absence.
The irony of it did not escape her-that for once she found herself listening intently for the sound of his footsteps, wanting to hear them. But as little as she enjoyed Geoffrey’s company, still less did she enjoy being a figure of pity. She’d already been held up to ridicule and censure as a repudiated wife, and she could not bear to be seen now as a neglected wife, too, pregnant and pathetic, left at home alone while her husband took his pleasure in other beds, with other women.
She slept poorly that night, unable to find a comfortable position, and awoke the next morning feeling as if she’d never been to bed. Her ankles were swollen, her head aching, her legs cramping, and by the time Minna had helped her to dress, she’d begun to get random sharp pains in her lower back. According to Dame Rohese, her midwife, she was not due for another fortnight. But on this cold Lenten Sunday in early March, a fortnight seemed longer to Maude than a twelvemonth.
The Church said childbirth was the Curse of Eve, but she couldn’t help wondering why men were spared their fair share of the burden. Granted, it was Eve who’d first let herself be tempted by the serpent, but Adam had tasted that wretched apple, too, had he not?
Minna was accustomed to her mistress’s acerbic morning musings, and she continued calmly to braid Maude’s long, dark hair, pointing out that the babe might well be born on Palm Sunday-an auspicious beginning, indeed, for a future king.
Maude went to Geoffrey’s bedchamber as soon as she was dressed, and was angered and disconcerted to discover that his bed had not been slept in. If he did not return from his nocturnal hunting within the next few hours, his continued absence would become known to all in the castle, for there could be no other explanation for his failure to appear at dinner.
Her guests were soon up and stirring, too polite to ask about Geoffrey’s whereabouts. But the dinner hour was rapidly drawing nigh; it was already past ten. Snatching up her mantle, Maude left the hall; mayhap if she consulted with the cooks about the menu, it would take her mind off her missing husband. And it was then, as she crossed the bailey toward the kitchen, that she saw Geoffrey ride in through the gatehouse.
For one who’d been out all night, he looked remarkably debonair and dapper. At the time of their wedding, he’d been a good-looking boy. Now, in his twentieth year, he’d matured into a man to turn female heads and claim female hearts, able to seduce with a smile and the age-old allure of fire and ice, the sudden glint of flames in the depths of a cool blue-grey gaze. Only one woman was indifferent to his swagger and sly, wayward charm-the wife who was now staring at him with intense, impotent fury.
Geoffrey acknowledged her presence with a cheerful wave on his way to the stables. Feeling awkward and ungainly, trapped in a stranger’s heavy, bloated body, Maude trudged after him. He was already dismounting, handing over his stallion to a groom by the time she reached the stable doorway. “Where were you last night, Geoffrey?”
Although she kept her voice low-pitched, it throbbed with angry accusation. Geoffrey gave her a surprised look, a faintly mocking smile. “I think she said her name was Annette…why? I find it hard to believe you were lying awake all night, dear heart, craving my caresses.”
