“Who would know your wounds better than I? This particular wound was inflicted the day you knelt before Stephen and pledged him your fealty. I’d hoped it would heal in time, but it has begun to fester. You’d best cut it out, Robert, ere its poison starts to spread.”
He could not hide his surprise. “You urged me from the first to make peace with Stephen. Are you saying now that you were wrong?”
“No…but you were, for listening to me!”
“Amabel, this is too serious a matter for jesting. If I were to renounce my allegiance to Stephen, you could accept that? You’d not fear the consequences?”
“Of course I’d fear them-not being a fool! But what I fear more is Stephen’s fear. For he does fear you: your power, your castles, your vassals, and your kinship to Maude. And all the while, William de Ypres hovers close at hand, awaiting his chance. How long ere that Flemish viper talks Stephen into moving against you? One failed ambush is enough, by God! If war is sure to come, then you may as well follow your heart-and the oath you swore to your father on Maude’s behalf.”
“You are a constant source of wonderment, Amabel. I know you like Maude not. You never wanted to see her as England’s queen, never.”
“What of it? Neither did you.” Holding up her hand before he could protest. “Admit it, Robert. Your fondness for Maude notwithstanding, you had grave doubts about a woman’s wielding a man’s power, especially a woman wed to Geoffrey of Anjou. But Maude has a son, a son with the blood-right to Normandy and England, and I’d wager that is what robs you of sleep at night.”
Robert was silent for several moments, marveling at how well she knew him, how easily she’d seen into the most private corners of his soul. “You are right,” he conceded. “I did have qualms about Maude’s queenship. I let her down and I regret that. But it is young Henry who has been haunting my peace. I tried to do what was best for us, for England, and I failed, I failed miserably. Stephen has not the makings of a king, however well-meaning he may be. Nor can I trust him, and if-”
“What more is there to say, then? Why let Stephen choose the time and place for your reckoning? You choose, Robert-here and now.”
Robert’s relief rendered him speechless. It had taken him months to reach that same conclusion, and with great reluctance, for he was that paradox, a man of courage whose nature was inherently cautious and conservative, and rebellion was as rash and reckless an action as he could envision. It was also inevitable, but even after he’d finally acknowledged that, he’d not known how to break the news to his wife, loath to cause her pain.
“I thank God for your change of heart,” he said, “but I’ll confess that I did not expect it. I well remember how you argued with me, insisting that I must recognize Stephen as king.”
“And I was right-then. You’d have stood alone, without allies. But time has favored Maude, not Stephen. The Scots king has led another army across the border, is burning and pillaging Northumbria even as we speak. Stephen’s disgruntled brother grows weary of waiting for that archbishop’s mitre, and who can count all the lords who’ve come to resent the royal favors lavished upon the Beaumonts and their kin? It would have been sheer folly to urge a mutiny when the ship was still in the harbor, sails just catching the wind. But now that same ship is taking on water, those splendid new sails are in tatters, reefs lie ahead…and how much more likely it is that the crew shall be willing to heave Stephen overboard!”
Even after three decades of marriage, Robert could be taken aback by his wife’s ice-blooded practicality, so at odds with the conventional wisdom that women were sentimental creatures, good-hearted and guileless and charmingly giddy. As much as he’d come to value Amabel’s commonsense shrewdness, it troubled him occasionally that honour weighed so lightly on her ethical scales. But not now. Now he was grateful for the stark single- mindedness of her vision, and he said, “It means much to me, that you understand what I must do.”
“I always understand, my love,” Amabel said fondly. “I just do not always approve! Now I think we’d best end this midnight council. No man ever died of conscience pangs. The same cannot be said, though, for men who court chills in drafty, cold, fireless chambers.” And taking his arm, she drew him back to the warmth of their marriage bed.
ON a windy, cool day in June, Geoffrey and Maude rode into the Norman city of Caen. The procession was a colorful one, for they both appreciated the value of pageantry, those “bread and circuses” offered by royalty since time immemorial. They made a striking couple, mounted on matching white palfreys, dressed in rich shades of red silk, Maude’s gold-threaded veil a gossamer swirl of sunlight, Geoffrey’s scabbard aglitter with studded gemstones. The citizens were impressed by their splendor, but they were not won over. However handsome Geoffrey was, he was still Angevin, of the Devil’s Brood, and no Norman could rejoice in his triumph. They were a practical people, though, and now that their liege lord had seen fit to welcome the Angevin and his haughty wife, they turned out in large numbers to watch, if not to cheer.
As the procession wound its way through the narrow, thronged streets, the attention of the crowd shifted from their would-be duchess and her hated husband, focusing instead upon the tawny-haired, dark-eyed youth riding at Maude’s side. Ranulf’s spirits were soaring higher than Caen’s circling, raucous gulls, and his laughing exuberance was so contagious that only the most dour soul could resist smiling at his antics.
He was flirting shamelessly with every pretty girl he passed, fishing out coins for street urchins and beggars, saluting priests and widows, and teasing the small boys who were trying to keep pace. As they neared the castle, a young woman leaned from an upper window, throwing down a long-stemmed rose. Ranulf caught it deftly, casting about him for a favor to give in return. Several streets back, he’d amused the crowd by plucking a flowering sprig from an overhanging tree and presenting it to a giggling redhead. Now, though, he saw no gardens to raid. But then his gaze fell upon a nearby street vendor. Moments later, he triggered a burst of laughter by tossing a spiced wafer to the girl at the window-laughter that spread as he then distributed wafers with comic gallantry to all female spectators within reach.
Of those watching, Maude alone was not entertained. Although she was Norman-French and Scots by blood, her formative years had been spent in Germany, and she still clung to those lessons she’d learned at the august and regal court of her first husband, the Holy Roman Emperor. By the time she’d come home to England, it was an alien land, and she’d yearned for the ceremonial elegance and protective protocol of her husband’s world, a world she’d made her own, only to have it taken from her by death and her father’s implacable will. Even now she was disconcerted by informality, finding it too closely akin to familiarity, and Ranulf’s free and easy manner jarred her sense of decorum. It was not seemly that he should jest with these Norman peddlers and craftsmen and their women, for he was a king’s son. She said nothing, though, for this was neither the time nor the place for a reprimand. Geoffrey would overhear and laugh rudely. Nor did she want to spoil the moment for Ranulf. He was entitled to play the fool, as long as he did not make a habit of it.
Ahead lay the castle. The gates were open wide, the walls lined with curious faces, and as they rode across the drawbridge into the bailey, they found Robert and Amabel waiting within, ready to bid them welcome. They were smiling, and Maude smiled back, reining in her palfrey and holding out her hand so Robert could help her dismount. But her pleasure was not as pure and uncomplicated as Ranulf’s, for as much as she rejoiced in Robert’s return to the True Faith, and as much as she wanted to forget his betrayal, she had never learned how to forgive.
It had rained for days, a cold, pelting rain that defied the calendar and frustrated Londoners, for they’d yearned for June’s warmth during a long, bleak winter, and now June was here, but more like March in disguise. Although a fire had been lit in the royal bedchamber, it had yet to chase away the damp. On nights like this, Matilda missed her cozy chamber at Tower Royal; the palace at Westminster might be a more fitting residence for England’s king, but Matilda preferred the manor house that had been her home for most of her marriage.
“When will Papa be back?”
Eustace was straddling a bench by the fire, kicking rushes into the hearth. He sounded quite ingenuous, as if his only concern were with Stephen’s whereabouts, but Matilda knew better, for she knew her son. Of all her children, Eustace was the most stubborn, the one most determined to get his own way. It was bedtime he was resisting, for he’d decided that since he was eight now, he should not have to go to sleep at the same time as his younger brother, William. Occasionally he’d hide, but his usual tactic was delay, the strategy he was employing tonight, and he’d been bombarding his mother with earnest queries about how long dragons live and whether elephants truly fear mice and why it never snows in summer. His sudden interest in his father’s itinerary didn’t fool
