occasional glimpse of sun-silvered water. As days go, this one was well nigh perfect, Stephen thought, with the best yet to come. The creature perched upon his fist was equally expectant, its hooded gaze turning instinctively toward the sky, talons digging into the leather of his gauntlet. The greyhounds and their handlers were in position by now, downriver. It was time, and Stephen signaled for his men to flush their prey. As they moved in, the reeds parted, there was a flash of grey, and a large crane flew upward, powerful, beating wings taking it into the air over their heads.
Stephen removed the hood without haste, and by the time he cast the gerfalcon off, the crane was well on its way toward the River Trent. The gerfalcon rose higher and higher into the sky, white and sleek and silent, as if racing the clouds rather than the crane. But then, with sudden and terrible speed, it was diving, a deadly streak of light swooping down upon its quarry. They collided in midair, the gerfalcon striking with such force that the larger bird could not break free, and they plummeted together to earth in a flurry of bloodied feathers.
Stephen gave an exultant shout, echoed by the other men, for hawking was a universally shared passion, even though the best birds were reserved for those of high birth. The dogs had been set loose, and were racing toward the struggling crane. Greyhounds were favored for heron hunting, as there was always a danger that a falcon might be injured by so large a bird; cranes and herons were not its natural prey. Stephen waited tensely, his view blocked by the high marsh grass. But then one of the dog handlers rose up, gesturing triumphantly, and Stephen turned back to his companions, saying with a relieved grin:
“All is well. Come, let’s not keep her waiting for her reward.” As he started to dismount, though, his attention was drawn by approaching riders, already within recognition range: the brothers Beaumont, Waleran and Robert and their younger brother Hugh, newly named as Earl of Bedford.
“Were you in time to see the kill? That was Diana, as fine a Greenland falcon as you’ll find on English shores. Did you see her stoop? Faster than any arrow ever launched!”
They had indeed witnessed the gerfalcon’s strike, and were not stinting in their praise. Waleran was unusually well read for a nobleman-many of his rank scorned reading as a clerk’s skill-and he was knowledgeable enough to appreciate the aptness of the gerfalcon’s name. But he was curious as to how Stephen had learned of a pagan goddess of the hunt, well aware that the king neither knew nor cared about the religious beliefs of ancient Rome. When Stephen explained that the gerfalcon had been a gift from his brother the Bishop of Winchester, Waleran laughed aloud, pleased to have solved the puzzle with such ease.
“Mind her well,” he said jovially, “for you’ll be getting no more hawks from that one, not with his hopes as dead as Diana’s crane!”
Stephen did not join in the laughter, for his breach with his brother was no joking matter. But neither did he chide Waleran for his plain speaking, as he’d only said what they all knew-that the bishop had been nursing a mortal grudge since December, when a church synod had elected Theobald, Abbot of Bec, as the new Archbishop of Canterbury.
Dismounting, the Beaumonts followed Stephen and William de Ypres toward the river. By now, it was all over; the crane had been killed, the gerfalcon retrieved, and the greyhounds rewarded. The crane’s heart had been cut out, saved for Stephen, and he was feeding it to Diana when Geoffrey de Mandeville rode up. He at once urged Stephen to fly the gerfalcon again, complaining that his own falcons were already in moult. Stephen had intended to return to the castle, still visible in the distance, for it had been built upon a towering rock of red sandstone high above the meadows of the Rivers Leen and Trent. It was filling rapidly with highborn guests, summoned to attend his Easter court, and he knew he ought to be getting back. But when the Beaumonts added their voices to Mandeville’s, he let himself be persuaded, and they were soon heading downriver in search of fresh prey.
As they rode along, Stephen boasted of the coming festivities. Virtually every peer of the realm would be at Nottingham to witness his ratification of the treaty Matilda had negotiated at Durham with the Scots king’s envoys. She was due to arrive any day now, and bringing with her young Harry, David’s son and heir. The lad was to be treated as an honoured guest, Stephen said, but with a sly smile, for they all knew he was also a valuable hostage, a pledge of his father’s good faith, and when Waleran wondered aloud how Matilda had ever coaxed the Scots king’s consent, Stephen laughed.
“My little bird,” he said proudly, “has begun to try her wings, to fly farther and farther from the nest. It was her own suggestion that she be the one to meet with the Scots. Maude was not David’s only niece, she said, and it was time she reminded him of that. I ask you, Waleran, who could have guessed how much fulfillment she’d get from besieging a castle? Women are truly the most mysterious of the Almighty’s creations, and beyond the puny powers of mortal men to comprehend!”
He laughed again, a soaring sound of pure pleasure, the laughter of a man utterly content with his wife, his hawks, and his world on this mild Thursday in Holy Week.
The Beaumonts did not share Stephen’s admiration for Matilda’s newfound fortitude. They feared few rivals at the king’s court, but they well knew the queen could pose a formidable threat should she begin meddling in matters of statecraft. What did it avail them to have the king’s ear whilst in the hall or on the hunt? As long as Matilda held sway in the royal marriage bed, the last word would always be hers. They were too canny to criticize her directly, though, contenting themselves now with expressing qualms about the Scots treaty. Was there not a risk that men might think the king had been overly generous in its terms?
Stephen was not troubled by their doubts. “I know men will like it not,” he conceded. “The talk in alehouses and taverns would scorch my ears off! And I’ll not deny that I paid a high price for peace with the Scots. But I had no choice, not if I was to avoid fighting two wars at once. How could I hope to drive Maude and Robert Fitz Roy into the sea if all the while, I had to keep watching my back? We know what happens to grain when it is caught between two millstones: it is pounded into grist. So if I must buy David’s millstone, I will, and not begrudge the cost, for that frees me to repel Maude’s invasion, if and when it ever comes.”
“Why do you say that, my liege?” Robert Beaumont asked. “Think you that Maude will lose heart now that her appeal to the Pope has come to naught?”
He sounded so dubious that Stephen had to chuckle. “No, Rob, I do not, however much I’d like to. If I’ve learned nothing else in these past three years, it is that Maude’s stubbornness runs wider and deeper than the River Thames. One of God’s own angels could appear before her in a blaze of light, tell her that it was the Almighty’s Will that she abandon this doomed quest of hers, and she’d not listen. But she is still stranded in Normandy, and that is not likely to change in the foreseeable future. I control all the ports now, save only Bristol, and Robert would never let her attempt a Bristol crossing, for it would be much too dangerous to sail all the way around Cornwall. So let her plot and scheme and lust after my crown to her heart’s content, just as long as she does it from a distance!”
The Beaumonts exchanged speculative glances, in which they silently agreed that Stephen was deluding himself if he truly believed Maude was safely “stranded in Normandy.” But they agreed, too, that there was no reason to dispute his delusions, not today. Waleran guided his stallion closer to Stephen’s handsome roan, saying quietly, “Indeed, I hope you are right, my liege, for we have enemies enough in our midst, scheming not ‘from a distance’ like Maude, but ofttimes in your very presence.”
“You mean the Earl of Chester, I suppose. I’ll not deny that he’ll be enraged once he learns the terms of the Scots treaty. Nor will I deny that he’ll ne’er forgive me for granting the Honour of Carlisle to David’s son. We did not trust him anyway, though, so naught has been lost. He’s one for blustering and ranting to get his way, but outright rebellion-I think not.”
“You know I like Chester not, my lord king. But we face a more dangerous foe than he, one protected by powerful armor, indeed-the trappings of Holy Church.”
Stephen reined in his mount, turning to stare at the younger man. “My brother? I’ll grant you that I’ve never seen him so wroth. He blames you, too, since the new archbishop comes from Bec, which has benefited handsomely from Beaumont largesse. But even if he truly believes we’re guilty of a sinister conspiracy to deprive him of his just due, I do not think he’d betray me.”
“I was not speaking of your brother, the Bishop of Winchester. It is the Bishop of Salisbury whom I fear.”
“Why?” Stephen was not surprised, though, for he’d long harbored his own suspicions of his uncle’s justiciar.
“No subject of the king should wield the power that Salisbury does. He has more kinsmen at Westminster than a dog has fleas. Just consider how far and wide he has cast his nets. His nephew Nigel is your treasurer and Bishop of Ely. Another nephew, Alexander, is Bishop of Lincoln. His bastard son is your chancellor. And God alone
