women had held fast, and Ranulf, ever the optimist, had no trouble convincing himself that Adeliza’s news was good.
Gesturing for Gilbert to mount behind him, Ranulf headed back toward the inner bailey. Maude and Robert were too impatient to wait for him within the castle keep, and were on the outer stairs. As soon as Ranulf’s horse came into view, Maude lifted her skirts and ran lightly down to him, calling out his name.
Ranulf flung himself from the saddle. “No one,” he said, “is ever in such a tearing hurry to share bad news. So we must have reason for rejoicing?”
“Indeed we do! Adeliza has offered us a safe landing in the south of England.”
Ranulf gasped. “At Arundel? She’d truly do that for you? Jesu, Maude, Arundel Castle is almost as formidable as Bristol!”
“Stephen thinks he has locked us out of England, but now we have the key. No more waiting, Ranulf-the time has finally come to reclaim my stolen crown!”
A sudden high-pitched yell floated across the bailey, a sound rarely heard off the hunting field. Rainald was standing in the doorway of the keep, cupping his hands to shout, “Get in here, Ranulf, so we can start to celebrate in earnest!”
Ranulf was too busy hugging his sister to pay Rainald any heed. By the time Maude broke free, laughing and breathless, Robert had reached them, with Amabel close behind. Rainald ducked back into the keep, reemerged brandishing a wine flagon. “If you’re all so set upon holding the festivities out in the bailey, at least I can provide fuel for the fire!”
After that, it got very chaotic for a time. Ranulf was kissed by Maude and Amabel, shared smiles with Robert, had wine spilled on him by Rainald, and was knocked to the ground by his dyrehunds, who’d bolted from the great hall at their first opportunity. Midst much laughter, Ranulf was helped to his feet and dusted off. It occurred to him that he ought to send Lora a message, not wanting her to worry when he failed to appear, and he glanced about for Gilbert. But then Maude drove all thoughts of the goldsmith’s daughter from his head, for she was saying with a fond smile:
“We have so much to do and not enough time. But this I vow to you, Ranulf-ere we sail for England, I will see to it that you are knighted.”
“Maude…thank you,” Ranulf stammered, at a rare loss for words, and they all laughed again. Maude happened then to notice Robert’s squire, standing a few feet away, still holding the reins of Ranulf’s horse.
“You, too, Gilbert. I’ll have Geoffrey knight you both,” she promised impulsively, and Gilbert’s fair skin flushed as red as his hair. He was even more thrilled than Ranulf, for Ranulf had never doubted that knighthood would eventually be his. But for Gilbert, a younger son with no prospects of inheriting his family’s manor, it had been far more problematic.
“How can I ever thank you?” he blurted out, and then found a way when he added, “my lady queen,” for Maude would remember that she’d been recognized for the first time as England’s sovereign on an August afternoon in the inner bailey of Argentan Castle.
Eventually they headed indoors, at Rainald’s prodding, for he’d run out of wine. Robert and Amabel had begun to argue, low-voiced but intently, after she’d announced her intention to sail with him back to England. Ranulf and Gilbert were eager to tell their fellow squires of the honour soon to be bestowed upon them, and Maude had plans to make, letters to write, a triumph to savor. But as she turned to follow the others, she felt a sudden tug upon her skirt, and found herself looking down into the anxious face of her eldest son.
Henry had been drawn from the stables by the commotion out in the bailey. He’d kept silent, careful not to attract attention to himself, and he’d listened. But now he could wait no longer for answers, and he yanked again on his mother’s skirt. “Mama? Are you going to England, to this…this Arundel?”
“Yes, Henry, I am,” she said, and he grinned, for he loved to travel and he was especially eager to make his first sea voyage.
“When will we go, Mama? Soon?”
Maude knelt, heedless of her skirts, and put her hands on his shoulders. “I am sorry, lad, but you cannot come. It would be too dangerous. As much as I would love to have you with me, I cannot put your safety at risk.”
Henry’s breath stopped, disappointment warring with disbelief. His father was often gone. As much as he missed Papa, he’d learned to accept it, that Papa came and went as unpredictably as the stable cat he’d befriended when Mama had first brought him to live at Argentan. Fathers and cats were like that, not reliable like dogs. Or mothers, for Mama had always been there, and when she did go away, it was never for long. He knew better, though, than to beg. He could wheedle his way with his father most of the time, with his mother some of the time- but never when she used this tone of voice, very serious and yet patient, too, how he imagined God would talk, if ever He talked to mortal men. He bit his lip, stared down at the ground, and then raised his eyes to meet hers.
“If it is too dangerous for me,” he said, “what about you, Mama? How will you be safe?”
Maude had so often prided herself on his precocity, gloried in her firstborn’s quickness, his obvious intelligence. But not now; now she’d have welcomed childish incomprehension, anything but those direct grey eyes, fixed unwaveringly upon her face. “Yes…there will be some danger. But your uncles will be with me, and they’ll keep me safe.”
Henry wanted to ask why they could not keep him safe, too, but she was still using her God voice, and he didn’t dare. “How long will you be gone, Mama?”
That was the question Maude had been dreading. She could not bring herself to lie to him, though, for she believed strongly that her children deserved the truth. But never had the truth been so sure to hurt. “I wish I could tell you that I’d soon be able to send for you, Henry. God knows I would have it so. But I can make you no promises, for I do not know how long it will take to win my war. I just do not know.”
For Henry, it was like the time his brother Geoffrey jabbed him with a broom handle-a sharp pain in the pit of his stomach, slowly easing to a dull ache, and even after the pain went away, he still felt so hollow that it hurt.
His mother’s hands had tightened on his shoulders. “Ah, Henry, do not look like that! Your father will take good care of you, and you’ll have your brothers for company and your tutor and your new puppy…” Maude forced a smile. “And when we are together again, I’ll be wearing upon my head a gilded crown, a crown that will one day be yours, lad. You must remember that whenever you feel sad, remember that shining, golden crown.”
Henry said nothing. His eyes had darkened, and a few freckles stood out across the bridge of his nose. Maude got slowly to her feet, brushed dirt from her skirts. Her name was echoing again on the wind. First Rainald and then Ranulf had appeared in the doorway of the great hall, urging her not to tarry. Now it was Robert, admonishing her to make haste, reminding her of “all that must be done and done yesterday if we hope to sail ere winter weather sets in.”
“We’ll talk later, Henry, I promise,” she said, and bent down, kissing him quickly on the cheek. She glanced back once, just before reaching the hall. Henry had not moved. Shoulders hunched forward, so pale that her lip- rouge marked his skin like a brand, he was such a forlorn little figure that Maude dared not let herself look back again.
10
Sussex, England
September 1139
Stephen had been blessed with more than his share of good fortune; he’d been given health and high birth and a handsome face, and he’d made the most of his advantages. His life, like his marriage, had been a remarkably happy one. It baffled him, therefore, that his luck could have soured so suddenly, that his kingship should be sore beset by turmoil and treachery. He wanted only to be a good king, but his Eden was full of snakes. He could no longer trust, he who’d once trusted as easily as he breathed. The approval he craved-and had always gotten-now eluded him. He knew that he’d been judged and found wanting, and the unfairness of that judgment was a constant goad. The road to the crown had been so easy to travel; how had it ever become so mud-mired and twisting? It was almost as if the Almighty were no longer pleased with His servant Stephen.
