sideways glance that did not speak well for her discretion. Or her common sense, Amabel thought, promising herself a long and frank talk with Dame Agnes at the first opportunity. She could not blame the lass for looking, though; Geoffrey of Anjou was a sight to fill any woman’s eyes. Of course he was also false and perverse, and had he been her husband, she’d have been sorely tempted to flavor his wine with hemlock. But she knew, too, with just a trace of smugness, that she’d have handled him much better than Maude.
“Papa!” Henry was jerking impatiently at Geoffrey’s sleeve. “Come see my puppies!” Geoffrey obliged, was soon teasing his son about “this pack of meagre, mangy whelps.” Maude ordered wine, then sat down again at the chessboard, reaching for a chessman, a display of composure that might have been more convincing had the rook not been Robert’s.
“Let’s leave this till the morrow,” he said quietly, and when Geoffrey sauntered back, he spoke out before Maude’s silence could become conspicuous. “So…tell us, Geoffrey, what news are you bringing from Anjou?”
“I do have news,” Geoffrey said, “but from England, not Anjou.” Claiming a wine cup, he settled himself in a high-backed chair, turning a vibrant smile upon Dame Agnes when she demurely offered a cushion. “Did you hear about Stephen’s heroic feat at Ludlow? Whilst he was besieging the castle, the garrison swung a large grappling hook over the wall and caught a very big fish, indeed-none other than the Scots king’s son! They’d begun to reel him in when Stephen galloped up, grabbed the hook, and pulled their fish free!”
“That is already known to us,” Rainald said, so brusquely that it bordered upon rudeness.
Geoffrey ignored the interruption. “What with Stephen’s saving the lad from capture, mayhap that treaty of Matilda’s will last, after all. Your little cousin has had quite a remarkable year, dear heart. First taking Dover Castle and then coaxing David over to Stephen’s side. I’d not be surprised if she deserves credit, too, for the Pope’s finding in Stephen’s favor!”
Maude took the bait, hook and all. “That is not so,” she snapped. “The Pope did not decide my appeal on the merits. As for Matilda’s meddling, it matters little, for she can do us no harm. Calling a wren a merlin does not make her a hawk, Geoffrey. It merely raises doubts about the soundness of your judgment.”
Geoffrey’s smile held steady, but his eyes reflected the light like shards of blue ice. “Now who could blame me, Maude, for admiring such a loyal, loving little wife? So few men are lucky enough to wed a Matilda, after all.”
Maude fought back a barbed rejoinder, with an effort obvious to them all. Her brothers were struggling with their own indignation, Ranulf and Rainald glaring as balefully as hawks, Robert showing his displeasure with more subtle signals, but easily read by his wife. Amabel would have been hard put to say which one vexed her more, Geoffrey or Maude. They were worse than children, she fumed, for marriage was a serious matter, a Sacrament. Did these fools think contentment was ladled out onto their trenchers just for the asking? But no, they could not make their peace like sensible souls, and she’d say “So be it” if not for the fact that they kept miring Robert down, too, in this matrimonial swamp of theirs. One more exchange of insults and that hothead Rainald would be lunging for Geoffrey’s throat, with Ranulf not far behind, and her Robert having to mop up the blood, as always.
“Well,” she said abruptly, “unless you have other news to share, Geoffrey, I think it time we bid one another a good night. Of a sudden I am weary beyond words.”
“Ah, but I do have more news,” Geoffrey said, “news sure to startle.” He paused then, deliberately, to ask Dame Agnes if she might pour him another cupful of wine. “There was a great scandal when Stephen’s council met last month at Oxford. It began with a brawl at the dinner table, ended with Stephen’s chancellor and the Bishops of Salisbury, Lincoln, and Ely in disgrace, arrested as enemies of the Crown.”
Geoffrey got the response he was aiming for: exclamations of shock, giving way almost at once to a barrage of sharp questions. But he was in no hurry to relinquish center stage, and he drew out his account in provocative, provoking detail, telling them how the bishops had been summoned to attend Stephen’s council, how the Earl of Richmond’s men had gotten into a squabble with retainers of Bishop Roger of Salisbury, how swords were drawn, a melee breaking out that left one knight dead and several sorely wounded. Stephen had blamed the bishops, demanded that they surrender their castles, as “pledges of their good faith,” Geoffrey reported, drawling out the phrase with ironic relish.
“If it was the castles Stephen wanted, why were they then arrested?”
“The Bishop of Ely was loath to ‘pledge his faith’ and fled Oxford, taking refuge behind the walls of Devizes Castle. When Stephen followed with an army, Bishop Nigel still refused to yield, even when Stephen threatened to hang his cousin Roger…so much for family fondness. But the old bishop’s concubine could not abide the sight of her son with a hempen rope about his neck, and she prevailed upon the garrison to surrender. Lucky that some women are so tenderhearted, is it not?”
“Stephen must have gone mad,” Robert marveled, “for the Church will never forgive him for this. They insist upon the sole right to punish their own.”
“That seems to have occurred to Stephen, too,” Geoffrey agreed, “for he is claiming that he acted against these men in their capacity as ministers of the Crown, not as shepherds of the Church’s flock. I rather doubt whether that particular hawk will fly, but to give credit where due, it’s a devilishly clever argument.”
“Too clever by half,” Maude said caustically, “all of it. Stephen could no more hatch a scheme like this than he could hatch an egg! I’d wager the whole concoction was brewed up elsewhere and then spoon-fed to Stephen, with enough sweetness added to conceal any sour aftertaste.”
“You do ‘know thine enemy,’ dear heart,” Geoffrey conceded. “The verdict amongst the English echoes yours-that Stephen is not guileful enough to spring a trap like this on his own. Stephen may have fostered this crafty offspring, but it was most likely sired by a Beaumont.”
Geoffrey’s guess hit its target dead-on, and there were knowing nods of agreement. Their resentment of Geoffrey was muted for the moment, and they began feverish speculation as to how they could turn the Oxford events to Maude’s benefit, for they were all sure that Stephen had blundered badly. It was Ranulf who unwittingly fanned the flames again, for the hostility between Maude and Geoffrey never fully died out, and there were always a few smoldering embers waiting to catch fire. The spark this time was a seemingly innocuous question. “When,” Ranulf wondered, “did all of this happen?” And Geoffrey’s casual response, “Midsummer’s Day,” drew murmurs of surprise.
Even Maude was looking at Geoffrey with reluctant respect. “The 24th? And you had word in less than a fortnight? I was not aware, Geoffrey, that you had such reliable English sources of information.”
“Unfortunately, I do not,” he said, favoring her with one of his most disarming smiles. “But you do, dear heart, and I had the good luck to encounter his messenger at the city gates. The man was hesitant at first to yield up his prize, but as you can see”-pulling a letter from his tunic-“I persuaded him to see reason.”
Maude drew a breath sharp enough to hurt. “You took my letter? Who was it from?”
“Who was it from?” he echoed. “Now why cannot I remember the name? Was it Bertram? No…Barnabas? Mayhap Brien?”
“You did not have the right!”
“Of course I did, Maude. I had a husband’s right. If I did not read it, how could I be sure it was not a love letter?”
“Damn you, Geoffrey!” Maude was white with fury, her hands knotted against her skirt, clenched into fists to stop herself from snatching at the letter, for she knew he’d just jerk it away, and she would not give him that much satisfaction. She’d not let him strip her of her dignity, too. For the same reason, she dared not demand the letter. He’d only refuse, and what could she do then? For God rot him, but he did have the right, and not even her brothers would deny it.
Her brothers did indeed believe that a man had the right to read his wife’s mail, for she-and all she owned- was his. But that was theoretical, a belief easy to argue in the abstract. In the raw reality of Argentan’s hall, Ranulf found that he could not stomach it, and he took a threatening step toward his sister’s husband. “Give her the letter-now.”
It was a reckless, foolhardy thing to do, and Maude loved him for it. But Geoffrey reacted as she’d known he would, smiling coldly and saying, “I think not.” Rainald was on his feet now, too, for if there was going to be bloodshed, he meant to make sure it was Geoffrey’s rather than Ranulf’s. Robert was already in motion, though, reaching out and grasping Ranulf’s arm.
“Think, lad, what you may be starting,” he cautioned.
“It is easy enough to stop. He needs only to turn over her letter,” Ranulf retorted, and Robert found himself staring at his youngest brother in dismay, suddenly seeing not a malleable youth but a man grown, a man who was
