Robert was studying his sister, troubled by her pallor. There was a brittle edge to her beauty, shadows lying like bruises under her eyes and in the corners of her mouth, and it occurred to him that shadows lay deep, too, in the corners of her life-a thought that startled him, for it seemed much too fanciful to have been his. He could not banish her shadows, but there was something he could offer, a need he could fill. He could give her hope, and he said forcefully:
“I’m much heartened by Brien’s letter. It is indeed as Scriptures say, ‘I was wounded in the house of my friends.’ Of course the Beaumonts cannot take all the blame for Stephen’s folly; he chose to heed them of his own free will. He has made more than his share of mistakes since seizing your throne, Maude, but this breach with the Church might well be the fatal one. We’ll be able to sow dissension with ease, and God Willing, we’ll reap enough support to harvest a crown.”
That was bold talk for Robert, a man who measured his words with such scrupulous care that he could put a lawyer to shame, and Maude gave him a grateful smile; tonight of all nights, that was what she needed to hear. Ranulf and Rainald were chiming in with eager assurances of their own. But Geoffrey’s voice cut through their confidence with knifelike clarity.
“Are you not putting the cart before the horse?”
Maude’s fingers tightened around the stem of her wine cup. “What do you mean by that, Geoffrey?” she asked warily, and he shrugged.
“You may well be right about the seriousness of Stephen’s blunder. But even if he has set chaos loose upon his land, how does it benefit you? Unless you find a way to cross the Channel, Stephen’s government can be unraveling like a ball of yarn and it will avail you naught.”
They were all glowering at him, but for once Geoffrey’s tone was free of mockery. As hard as it was to give him the benefit of any doubt, it did seem as if he’d not meant to be malicious this time. He was right, of course, too, for nothing could be done until they broke Stephen’s stranglehold upon the English ports. They could not, in fairness, fault him merely for speaking the truth, however unpalatable or ill-timed. And so they held their peace, and as always, Maude thought wearily, Geoffrey got the last word.
ON a sunlit Friday four weeks later, Ranulf led his horse from the stables. He was about to swing up into the saddle when his eye was drawn to a blaze of vivid red color. Maude might scorn embroidery and needlework, but she did enjoy gardening, and her roses were in spectacular scarlet bloom. Detouring across the bailey, Ranulf hitched his stallion and set about helping himself to some of his sister’s damask roses. He picked only a few, though, before the screaming started.
Two small boys were rolling about in the dirt near the stable door. By the time Ranulf reached them, Henry looked to be the winner, straddling Geoffrey while his brother kicked and screeched. Grabbing his tunic, Ranulf yanked Henry to his feet, and then caught Geoffrey before he could flee. “Enough! What is this squabbling about?”
“He stole my sword,” Henry panted, “and then broke it!”
“I did not!” Geoffrey was just as breathless and just as indignant. “It was mine!”
The disputed sword lay a few feet away, its wooden blade snapped off near the hilt. One glance was all Ranulf needed to give his verdict. “That was not your sword, Geoffrey,” he said, with such conclusive certainty that his nephew stared up at him, openmouthed and wide-eyed.
“How…how did you know?”
Ranulf concealed a smile. “Because,” he said gravely, “I made that sword myself, and gave it to your brother on his birthday last March. So you owe Henry an apology. Go on, tell him you are sorry.”
Geoffrey mumbled a “Sorry” that did not sound very convincing, but it seemed to satisfy Henry, and Ranulf sent them off to play again with a promise to make wooden swords for them both. Henry came running back a moment later, though. “Uncle Ranulf…will you make my sword bigger?”
“Well…” Ranulf pretended to ponder the request, but Henry caught the glint in his eye, and they grinned at each other. The boy spun around then, to chase after Geoffrey, and Ranulf, laughing softly to himself, headed back to retrieve his horse and his roses.
He did not need to go far. Gilbert Fitz John was coming toward him, leading the stallion and carrying the flowers. “So…did you get the lads to make their peace?”
“At least until supper.”
Gilbert laughed, playfully jerking the flowers out of Ranulf’s reach. “What is your hurry? And why the roses? Ah…you’re going courting again! The goldsmith’s daughter?”
“Who else? Lora sent me word that her father left this morning to deliver a chalice to the monks at St Martin’s. Since he’ll not be back to Argentan till late, I thought I ought to stop by, keep her from getting lonely.”
“How good-hearted of you! Will that be after you visit with the widows and orphans?”
Ranulf laughed, jabbed Gilbert in the ribs, and snatched back his flowers. But as he reached for the reins, Gilbert put a restraining hand upon his arm.
“Ranulf, wait. I’ve a letter that you’ll want to see-from Ancel.”
They’d not heard from Ancel in almost two years, not since his return to England, and as soon as Gilbert produced the letter, Ranulf grabbed for it eagerly. Gilbert was explaining that Ancel had found a man going on pilgrimage to the Spanish shrine of Santiago de Compostela, and he’d persuaded the man to stop at Argentan. “I promised him a seat at supper in the great hall and a bed for the night. But what he really wants is to talk with you, Ranulf. That was how Ancel coaxed him into taking the letter, offering him a chance to meet a king’s son-even one born on the wrong side of the blanket!”
But Gilbert’s banter was wasted, for Ranulf was no longer listening. After rapidly scanning the letter, and not finding what he sought, he turned aside, swearing softly.
“Ranulf?” Gilbert followed, puzzled. “What is amiss?” And then he understood. “Annora? Good God, Ranulf, is that wound still sore?”
“No,” Ranulf said curtly, “it is not. But I still have a fondness for her, wish her well. Why should that surprise you? I simply wanted to know if she is content, and if Ancel ever used the brains God gave him, he’d have understood that! But no, nary a word about her-”
“What did you want him to tell you? That her husband dotes on her and she goes about her days singing? Or that she has grown thin and wan and weeps in secret?”
Ranulf whirled, eyes narrowed to glittering slits. “I said I wanted only to know if she was well!”
“If she were ailing, Ancel would have told you. But her happiness is no longer your concern. She is a married woman, and by now, it’s likely she has a babe in the cradle and another on the way-”
“I know full well that Annora is another man’s wife, do not need to have you throw it in my face!”
Gilbert was not perturbed by Ranulf’s anger, for he knew his friend’s rages were fast-burning and soon over, sooner forgotten. What troubled him was the reason for Ranulf’s flare of temper. He’d truly believed that Ranulf’s feelings for Annora were-like Annora herself-part of his past. “I am sorry about the sermon, Ranulf. I guess I’ve been spending too much time with my cousin the priest.”
“Indeed you have,” Ranulf agreed coolly, although the corners of his mouth were quirking. “But what I cannot understand, Gib, is why I’m still here with you when I could be in Master Jehan’s house with Lora.” And Gilbert grinned, stepped back, and waved him on.
Ranulf had gotten no farther than the gatehouse when he heard his name being shouted behind him. He reined in, then sent his stallion cantering back toward Gilbert. “What now?”
“Lady Maude and Lord Robert…they want you to come back straightaway!” Gilbert was gasping for breath; he’d sprinted all the way across the inner and outer baileys so he could catch Ranulf in time. “A courier came for her soon after that pilgrim brought Ancel’s letter. I heard men say he bore a message from your father’s queen. Her news…it must be very good or truly terrible, Ranulf, if Lady Maude is so intent upon finding you!”
Maude had never found many friends among her own sex, but the Lady Adeliza was the exception. She and Maude had taken to each other from the moment of Maude’s forced return from Germany. Not so surprising, perhaps, for they shared much in common. Adeliza was German by birth, Maude by choice. They were the same age, a young queen in a land not her own, a young widow no longer at home in England, and both childless, although that would change, Maude bearing Geoffrey the sons she’d not borne for the emperor, and Adeliza-whose barren marriage had altered so many lives, especially Maude’s-now in her second year with a new husband and said to be great with child. But if their circumstances had radically changed over the years, the bond between the two
