after women!”
Ranulf joined gratefully in Stephen’s laughter, relieved to return to safer ground, for he’d ventured further than he’d intended; better to backtrack, for both their sakes. “Do all men lust after crowns, Stephen? Do you?”
“Ranulf, my lad, if you searched the length and breadth of England, you might eventually find a man with no interest whatsoever in being its king…and if you did, you could be sure he lied!”
Ranulf grinned. “You’ll probably think me truly demented then, if I confess that I’d not want to be a king. I would not want to be powerless, mind you. I want to be respected, to have lands of my own and friends I can rely upon and Annora de Bernay as my wife. But I’d rather serve the Crown, Stephen, than wear one. I only wish it could have been yours!”
Stephen looked startled. So did Ranulf; he’d not meant to say that, for it was a betrayal of Maude, and he loved his sister. “Maude would not forgive me for this,” he said, “and I truly wish I had no qualms about her queenship. Mayhap if she were not wed to that Angevin hellspawn…but she is, even if it was not a marriage of her choosing. She has the right to the English throne, though, a blood right, and I will hold to my sworn oath, accept her as England’s queen and Normandy’s duchess when that time comes. But I will always harbor a secret, reluctant regret: that it could not have been you, Cousin Stephen.”
Stephen was gazing into the bottom of his cup, as if it held answers instead of wine. “All is in God’s Hands,” he said gravely. “We do what we must, lad, and hope that our inner voices speak true, that we are indeed acting in the furtherance of the Almighty’s Will. No man can do more than that.”
“I suppose not,” Ranulf agreed, somewhat hazily, puzzled by the serious turn the conversation had suddenly taken.
Stephen saw that and reached over, clinking his wine cup to Ranulf’s. “Let us drink then,” he said, “to the sanctity of nunneries, bad luck to rogues, and good fortune to a spirited Southwark harlot named Sybil.”
Ranulf laughed. “Aye, and may Sybil and the good nuns and you, my lord Count of Boulogne, all prosper under the reign of Queen Maude,” he said, atoning for his earlier disloyalty to his sister, and raised his cup. But Stephen set his own cup down, for he could not in good conscience drink to the queenship of his cousin, a brave and honourable woman, but a woman withal.
5
Bernay, Normandy
November 1135
The Bernay family took its surname from the town that had sprung up around a Benedictine abbey. The bulk of Raymond de Bernay’s lands lay across the Channel, in England, though, for Raymond’s father had profited handsomely when Normandy’s duke claimed by conquest the English crown. But it had been many months since Raymond had visited his English estates. King Henry had been dwelling in Normandy for the past two years, seemed in no hurry to return to his island kingdom, and Raymond thought it prudent to follow his liege lord’s example.
When the dogs began to bark, Raymond’s daughter darted out the door into the bailey, heedless of the snow and cold. Ranulf was just swinging down from his saddle when Annora flung herself into his arms. “Fool!” he laughed. “Where is your mantle? Do you want to freeze?”
“Are you saying you cannot keep me warm?” She laughed back at him, and he took the dare, kissing her with enough passion to keep the cold at bay, at least until Edith hastened outside and chased them both into the manor, grumbling about such unseemly behavior.
Annora had no memories of her mother, who’d died while she was still in her cradle. But she could not remember a time when Edith had not been part of her life: nurse, confidante, mainstay. She was quite unfazed, though, by Edith’s sermon; she well knew the older woman would forgive her any sin under God’s sky.
Ranulf was equally unperturbed by Edith’s scolding. For all that she freely sprinkled her conversation with “rascal” and “young rogue,” hers was a bark that lacked bite; Edith was utterly delighted that her “darling lass” was to wed the king’s son. At least this was what she told Annora, for she’d never admit that she found Ranulf’s ready grin and good humor as appealing as his royal bloodlines. Jesu forfend that Annora ever suspect the shameful truth, that she was a secret romantic with a weakness, even now, for a likely lad.
The Bernays’ cook also had a fondness for Ranulf, and sent out a heaping platter of hot cheese-filled wafers. As Ranulf divided his attention between Edith and the wafers, Annora fidgeted. When her patience, never in plentiful supply, ran out, she got to her feet so abruptly that she spilled Ranulf’s cider, insisting that he accompany her outside to see the stable cat’s newborn kittens.
As excuses go, it was pitifully thin; only nuns and an occasional eccentric viewed cats as pets. But Edith waved them on indulgently, for Annora’s elder brother Fulk was due back that night, and he’d be far more vigilant about safeguarding his sister’s virtue. Let her lamb and the lad have some sweet stolen moments together. Even if they could not be trusted to be prudent-and in her heart she knew that discretion was an utterly alien concept to Annora-at the very worst, they’d just have to hasten the date for the wedding. But she had no problems with that, for her lamb was fifteen now, old enough to be a bride, a wife and mother.
Ranulf and Annora reached the stables in record time. Once they were safely within its sheltering shadows, Ranulf headed for the nearest bale of hay and drew Annora down onto his lap. Pulling off her veil, he reached under her mantle, then began to kiss her upturned face.
By their society’s rigid standards, Annora was no beauty, for she bore no resemblance whatsoever to the tall, willowy, golden-haired maidens so admired by their minstrels and poets, fair maidens demure and docile and unfailingly deferential to male authority. No bards would be singing Annora’s praises; she was short and dark and stubborn and so volatile that her brothers called her Hellcat.
So did Ranulf, but on his lips, it became an endearment. He wished now that he could have unbraided her hair; when loose, it put him in mind of a hot summer night, so black and sultry-soft was it. But that was out of the question; he could not let her emerge from the stables looking like a wanton, hair unbound and clothes askew. What would be the measure of his love if he cared naught for her honour?
It had not been easy, putting limitations upon their lovemaking. But he meant for Annora to come to their marriage bed a virgin, even if his forbearance half killed him, and at times, he feared it might. It was not that he believed they’d be sinning, for he did not; they’d been plight-trothed since the summer, since Annora’s fifteenth birthday, and a plight troth was almost as binding as a church ceremony. It was not his sense of sin that had so far kept Annora chaste; it was his sense of honour. Annora’s father trusted him, allowed him to see her often and alone, and Ranulf could not bring himself to betray Raymond’s trust by seducing Raymond’s daughter, however much he wanted to-however much Annora wanted him to. Thankfully, their waiting was almost done; her father was talking of a spring wedding.
Ranulf was the one to end their embrace; Annora never made it easy for him. “I suppose,” he muttered, “that all this self-control will stand me in good stead should I ever decide to become a monk.”
“A monk? I thought you were aiming for sainthood,” Annora gibed, and then gave a squeal when he yanked her braid. “How long can you stay?”
“Just till week’s end. My father had a sudden urge to go hunting, so Monday off he went to his lodge at Lyons-la-Foret, with Robert, a handful of earls, and a bishop or two. When I reminded Robert that Bernay was only a day’s ride away, he gave me leave to ‘pay your respects to your betrothed,’” Ranulf quoted, switching to a passable imitation of his brother’s gravely deliberate tones. “I promised, though, to be waiting when they return to Rouen on Friday. But we’ll not be apart for long. I’m sure your father plans to attend the king’s Christmas court, does he not?”
Annora nodded. “Of course. Who would miss it? Ah…but Maude would, it seems. We heard she quarreled with your father, that she then dared to leave Rouen without his permission. Can that be true, Ranulf?”
“Yes,” he said reluctantly. “But it was not a quarrel of Maude’s making. My father had promised to yield some castles to her husband, and Geoffrey became convinced he was not acting in good faith. So he seized them, which vexed my father sorely. They’ve been squabbling about it all summer, whilst Maude sought to make peace betwixt them, to no avail. At last she wearied of all the strife, and returned to Geoffrey in Anjou. She ought not to have gone without bidding my father farewell, but I can understand her anger, Annora. My father forced her to marry Geoffrey, and for him now to berate her for Geoffrey’s sins is unjust, to say the least.”
