very much his father’s son, and the sun haloed his reddish-gold hair, windblown and copper-bright. As young as he was, he knew his own mind, and they were not surprised to hear him arguing with the groom, insisting he could handle the reins himself. He was not one for whining, though; he was usually a cheerful, high-spirited child whose most common sins were cheekiness and an insatiable curiosity, sins easy enough to forgive. His younger brother Geoffrey was quick to throw tantrums when he was thwarted, but that was not Henry’s way, and he sought to persuade the groom now with a precocious mix of childish logic and coaxing charm.
“I thought you’d told Henry he could not have a horse of his own until he turned five. What changed your mind, Maude?”
“Geoffrey very helpfully told Henry that he’d learned to ride when he was four. I’ll not deny my heart was in my mouth the first time I saw him lifted into the saddle. But I do Henry no favor by coddling him. I must ever bear that in mind, the hardest lesson a mother has to learn.”
Her dark eyes were following her firstborn as he explored the confines of the garden. “When I was pregnant with Henry,” she said, “I remember being urged to eat these vast meals. Whenever I balked, there was always some meddlesome but well-meaning soul to remind me that I was eating for two. Well, now I am fighting for two, Ranulf. It was not just my birthright Stephen stole; it was Henry’s, too. So…I cannot give up. I will not fail my son as so many have failed me.”
That summer was exceedingly hot, and by September, the crops were shriveling in the fields, rivers running shallow and sluggish, and the roads so cracked and pitted that travelers found themselves choking on clouds of thick red dust. The great hall in Rouen’s castle was stifling, windows unshuttered in the vain hope of drawing in a breeze, attracting only flies and swarms of gnats. But most of the people present were indifferent to the heat and the insects, for their attention was riveted upon the confrontation taking place between the English king and the most powerful-and, therefore, most dangerous-of his barons.
Stephen’s face was flushed with anger. “My lord Earl of Gloucester, you have kept away from my court all summer, agreeing to come only after the Archbishop of Rouen pledged to vouch for your safety. Your suspicions are as outrageous as they are insulting. You’d best explain yourself, if indeed you can!”
“If you want answers, my lord king,” Robert said coldly, “seek them from him.” And he turned, drawing all eyes toward the window seat where William de Ypres was sitting.
The Fleming was not a big man, some inches shorter than Stephen. But he was well muscled, sturdy, and robust, a formidable foe on or off the battlefield. His long hair was streaked with silver, but the color was so fair that the grey was not at once noticeable. Much more conspicuous was a crescent-shaped scar that angled from his left eyebrow up into his hairline; his enemies called it the Devil’s brand. He and Robert had more in common than either man cared to admit. They were the same age, forty-seven, and both labored under the same disadvantage, for both were born out of wedlock.
Robert had fared better, though, than William de Ypres. The Fleming was a bastard son of a Count of Ypres, grandson of a Count of Flanders, and when his cousin was assassinated, he’d pushed his own claim to Flanders. He might even have prevailed, if not for the widespread suspicion that he’d been privy to his cousin’s murder. He’d been forced to flee his homeland, and for the past four years he’d been a trusted member of Stephen’s household. But if Stephen trusted him, few others did, and sentiment in the hall was very much with Robert as Ypres got to his feet without haste, approached the dais with a calculated swagger.
“Ask of me what you will,” he challenged, and Robert swung back toward Stephen, pointing an accusing finger at the Fleming.
“Whilst we were at Argences in June, waiting to do battle with Count Geoffrey of Anjou, this man-your man- plotted to ambush me. Fortunately, I was warned beforehand, and was able to safeguard myself against his treachery. But a man would be a fool to rely upon such luck a second time…would he not, my liege?”
The hall was utterly still. Not a man or woman there failed to hear what Robert left unspoken, the implication that if the deed was Ypres’s, the desire was Stephen’s. Stephen knew what they were thinking; a muscle twitched in his cheek as he looked from Robert to Ypres. “Will? What say you to this accusation?”
Ypres was not at all flustered to find himself in the storm’s center. In fact, he looked as if he relished it. “And was it not convenient, my lord Gloucester, to have an excuse to hole up in Caen, safely above the fray? It would have been awkward, after all, if you’d actually had to fight!”
“Are you questioning my courage?”
“Indeed not, my lord. I am questioning your loyalty.”
Robert was white with fury. “Dare you deny that you plotted to ambush me?”
“No,” Ypres said, and there was a stir in the audience. Matilda stepped unobtrusively from the shadows, lightly touched Stephen’s arm. Her husband did not appear to notice, keeping his eyes locked upon the two men.
The other barons had begun to murmur among themselves. Ypres silenced them with a gesture. “Ere you start building a gallows, I have more to say. I did plot against the Countess of Anjou’s brother. But I was not seeking his death. I aimed to flush him out into the open. It was my hope that he would betray himself, and to judge by the unseemly haste with which he abandoned our campaign, I’d say he did!”
“That is sheer drivel!” Few in the hall had ever seen Robert so angry, for his rage was usually iced over. “Had your scheme gone as planned, you’d have been able to bury your guilt in my grave. But you got unlucky-I survived. If you hope to escape punishment, though, you’ll have to do better than this. You expect us to take your word that you never meant murder? Christ’s Blood, you’ve left a trail of lies from Flanders to Boulogne that a blind man could follow!”
“What vexes you the most, my lord earl? That I took steps to smoke you out? Or that I reminded men of a fact you would rather we forgot-your blood kinship to a woman who is our king’s sworn enemy?”
“Enough!” Stephen got to his feet, striding toward the edge of the dais. “You’ve both had your say. Hurling insults and accusations at each other serves for naught. My lord of Gloucester, I can understand your anger. Whatever my lord de Ypres’s intent, he had not the right to put your loyalty to a test. It was an unfortunate incident, but it is over now, and best forgotten. As I am responsible for what is done in my name, I offer you my apology.”
To Robert, that was too little, too late. “I accept your apology,” he said, with perfunctory courtesy. “But what of Ypres? What penalty does he pay?”
“That is for me to decide. But you need not fear, for it will never happen again. On that, you have my oath.”
Robert’s mouth thinned. “I have your oath?” The words themselves were innocuous, but with a rising inflection, they became a sardonic commentary upon the king’s credibility.
“Yes, by God, my oath-the oath of a crowned, anointed king!” Stephen stalked down the dais steps, and Matilda held her breath, for a long-smoldering fire seemed about to burst into a hellish conflagration. Her relief knew no bounds when Robert chose not to strike that fatal flint, and she sat down hastily in the closest seat, so disquieted she did not even notice it was Stephen’s throne.
Stephen’s triumph was so fleeting, though, that he had no chance to savor it. As enraged as he was by Robert’s oblique defiance, he would not have let it fester, for if the voice was Robert’s, the hostility was Maude’s, and was thus easy to shrug off. But when he turned toward their audience, he was jolted by what he saw on so many faces: the same skepticism, the same doubt that his word was good. And standing there in the great hall of Rouen’s royal castle, he suddenly realized a very unpalatable truth: that most men might recognize him as England’s king, but they no longer saw him as a man of honour.
Matilda could not sleep unless she was sure that her children slept, too, and cupping her candle, she bent over the bed. They were sprawled in an ungainly tangle, legs and arms protruding at odd angles, as flaxen-haired as their father; Eustace had claimed both pillows, and William had fallen asleep sucking his thumb again. Smiling, she gently tucked the blankets about them, for she had at last banished Baldwin’s ghost from the nursery, no longer saw his curly blond head on the pillow beside his brothers’. Not a day passed when she did not think of him, her firstborn, taken too soon. She’d had two years, though, to come to terms with his loss. But her little girl’s grave was too newly dug, for they had buried her in ground frozen and snow-encrusted, last winter’s grief, too recent and raw for healing. Matilda straightened up slowly, backed quietly away from the bed where her sons slept, while whispering, soft as a breath, as she did every night, “Blessed Mary Ever Virgin, keep my lads safe, spare them hurt
