or harm, Amen.”
Her daughter stirred as soon as she approached the bed, mumbling a sleepy “Mama?” Matilda sat beside her, lifting the child onto her lap. When Mary began to nuzzle her breast, she opened her gown and let the little girl suckle. She had not nursed her older children, for women of rank were expected to hire wet nurses. But she had insisted upon nursing Mary, despite Stephen’s objections, prompted by feelings she could not fully explain, a need that was somehow related to her grieving for Baldwin. Whatever her reasons, she had cause to be thankful for her obstinacy, for the intimacy of that physical bonding with her baby when God suddenly took her other daughter, her namesake, just days away from her second birthday.
Mary had been a godsend, solace for her empty, aching arms, balm for her buffeted and bleeding faith. She knew hers was a common grief, knew how often children died in their first fragile years of life. She knew, too, that it was not for her to question the mysterious workings of the Almighty. But God had reclaimed two of her children; what if He wanted the others, too? And so she had decided to give Him one, to give Him Mary.
Stephen had resisted at first, for daughters were a king’s political capital; many an alliance had been forged in the heat of the marriage bed. Their little Tilda had been buried with a betrothal ring, having been plight-trothed to Waleran Beaumont a few months before her death. But his wife’s entreaties had soon won Stephen over; he’d reluctantly agreed that Mary would be pledged as a nun. And Matilda, mourning her dead daughter, was comforted, for surely Mary would find contentment in the cloistered peace of the convent. As a Bride of Christ, her salvation would be assured, her happiness more certain than as a bartered bride for a Waleran Beaumont or a Geoffrey of Anjou.
Once she’d rocked Mary back to sleep, Matilda headed for the stairwell that led up to her own bedchamber. The room was shuttered and still, and she wondered why it had not been made ready for her. Raising her candle, she moved toward the table, then recoiled at a sudden movement in the shadows. “Stephen? You scared me so! Why are you sitting here in the dark?”
He shrugged, saying nothing. Matilda subjected him to a candlelit scrutiny, and then retraced her steps to the door, where she discreetly dismissed the servant just entering with an oil lamp. She’d not expected this, that he should still be brooding about his clash with Robert of Gloucester; he’d always been one for living utterly in the present, with little patience for sifting through yesterday’s mistakes, even less interest in borrowing tomorrow’s troubles. Crossing to his chair, she tried to massage away the tension coiled in the muscles of his neck and shoulders.
“Have you decided what you shall do about William de Ypres, Stephen?”
“Nothing,” he said wearily. “How can I in good conscience punish him for reading my mind? He was wrong to act upon his suspicions, but they were mine, too. Anytime now I expect to find Brother Robert perched on the foot of my bed, watching to see if I stop breathing in the night. He is worse than a vulture, though, Tilda. At least they do not begin their deathwatch until their prey is down and floundering. Robert-damn his eyes-began his vigil as soon as he set foot in my realm.”
Matilda sighed softly. “He will like it not if you refuse to chastise Ypres.”
“Even if I did lesson Ypres, Robert would still find fault with it. Nothing I do would satisfy him-short of abdicating my throne in favor of his wretched sister.”
Matilda’s fingers had stopped moving, lay still against the nape of his neck. It worried her in no small measure, his failure to make peace with Robert. She blamed them both, Robert for being so stiff-necked and self- righteous, Stephen for being so defensive and suspicious, so unwilling to bid for Robert’s allegiance. Had the power only been hers, she’d have lavished Robert with royal favor; she’d have done whatever she could to give him compelling reasons for wanting Stephen’s kingship to succeed. But try though she might, she’d not been able to mute the echoes of their lifelong rivalry, and could only watch with foreboding as the rift between them widened. If Robert of Gloucester repudiated Stephen’s authority and openly declared himself for his sister, would his defection cause a few earth tremors…or an earthquake?
She’d rarely heard Stephen sound so disheartened. “I was proud of you today,” she said, “proud of the way you took responsibility for Ypres’s plotting. That was a forthright and courageous act, love.”
He shrugged again, and then surprised her by saying, “The old king would not have apologized.”
“Mayhap he would not,” she agreed, somewhat hesitantly, for she was not sure where he was going with this. “But it was right, Stephen, and honourable, and what else matters?”
“You are such an innocent,” he said, and rose abruptly to his feet. “I tried to do what was ‘right and honourable’ at the siege of Exeter; you remember, Tilda? Baldwin de Redvers’s wife came out to plead for mercy, hair streaming down her back, feet bare like one doing penance, face wet with tears. A man would have had a heart of flint if he were not moved by her pleas. And then Redvers’s fellow barons added their voices, arguing for clemency. So I agreed to pardon Redvers, I freed the garrison, and I was glad to do it. Even after Redvers then turned to piracy and fled the country, finding refuge with Maude, I was not sorry I spared them. I thought I’d done the right thing, and that was enough. But not for my barons. They’ve been laughing at me ever since, mocking me for showing mercy, for showing weakness-and this from the very same men who’d argued on Redvers’s behalf!”
“Even if that is so,” Matilda said, “you followed your conscience. What more can a man do than that, Stephen?”
“I do not know,” he admitted. “That is just the trouble, Matilda, I do not know!”
She was on her feet now, too, reaching out to him. “I’ve never heard you talk like this. What has happened?”
“I had a rightful claim to the English throne. It was no usurpation, for I was the old king’s favorite nephew, grandson of the great William the Bastard of Normandy. None wanted a woman on the throne, you know they did not. And I was urged to it, by men who rejoiced that I’d be sparing them-and England-untold misery. My oath to Maude meant nothing, writ on water, they said. But in breaking that oath, I became less in their eyes. Where is the fairness in that?”
“Ah, Stephen…” Matilda got no further, not knowing what to say.
“I looked out across that hall today, and I realized that I could trust none of them. None of them, Matilda!”
“Surely that is not so! What of your brother and the Beaumont twins?”
“Ah, yes, my faithful brother. How faithful do you think he’ll be if I do not set that archbishop’s mitre upon his head? And the Beaumonts will stay loyal-as long as they benefit from that loyalty. But do not fool yourself, Matilda- they’d go over to Maude without a qualm if she could come up with a big enough bribe. Even William de Ypres is suspect, for when a man’s loyalty is for sale to the highest bidder, there is always a risk of being outbid.”
He turned at her touch, looked down bleakly into her face. “No one I can trust, Tilda,” he repeated, and then pulled her to him, holding her against his chest, so close she could hear the thudding of his heart. “Only you,” he said softly, “only you…”
8
Caen, Normandy
April 1138
Spring in Caen was cold and damp and disappointing, for April had so far shown itself to be winter’s accomplice. Amabel, a restless sleeper, soon kicked the coverlets off. But when she rolled over, drowsily seeking Robert’s warmth, she found only the chill of an empty bed. Sitting up, she peered into the lurking night shadows, then groped for her bed-robe.
“Lent is over, Robert. How much longer do you mean to deny yourself sleep?”
“It is not penance, Amabel. If I’m wakeful, it is not by choice. But you need not keep vigil with me. Go back to bed.”
“Indeed not! If you broke a leg, I’d fetch a doctor to set it. If you were suffering from a fever, I’d treat it with sage and vervain. So why should I do any less now? You’ve a conscience in need of mending, and I’ve a needle and thread at the ready. Shall I start stitching?”
She could always coax a smile from him, however brief. “Are you so sure you’d know where to stitch?”
