He sensed the danger in such doubts, shared them with no others, not even his wife or his confessor. He could not let himself believe that he’d lost God’s Favor. If he was being tested, he would prove himself worthy.
But why were his victories so fleeting? Waleran’s scheme to cripple the Bishop of Salisbury’s power had gone as planned. Yet he’d had little time to savor their success. In August, he’d been summoned to Winchester, compelled to defend himself before a Church Council convened by his vengeful brother. His advocates had been able to blunt the thrust of the bishop’s charges, and no verdict had been returned, to the bishop’s obvious surprise. But he had a surprise of his own for Stephen: since March, he’d been in possession of a papal bull, one naming him as England’s new papal legate.
And so another triumph had turned to ashes in Stephen’s mouth, for his frayed relationship with the Church would continue to unravel; Henry would see to that. But he did the best he could, sought to reassure the Church that he did, indeed, respect Church prerogatives. He even managed to cobble together a patchwork peace with his brother, at least on the surface.
Before he could catch his breath, though, the next crisis was upon him. Baldwin de Redvers had fled to Normandy after the fall of Exeter Castle. In September he came back, landed without warning at Wareham, and seized Corfe Castle. Stephen reacted with his usual verve, hastening to lay siege to Corfe. And while Baldwin de Redvers lured him west, Maude and Robert made ready to sail for the southeast coast of England.
They left Barfleur at dusk, for a night crossing allowed the helmsman to steer by the polestar and then to approach England’s shores by daylight. This helmsman’s task was a challenging one; once land was in sight, he had to hug the coast and sail into the sunrise, aiming for a stretch of beach marked only by memory. To his passengers, it seemed truly miraculous when he steered their ships into a sheltered Sussex cove, as unerringly as if he were coming home.
There were no quays for disembarking, but their ships were flat-bottomed vessels, built-like their Viking prototypes-for beaching. After waiting so long, Maude was of no mind to wait any longer, but Robert’s innate caution won out over her eagerness, and he had no intention of venturing ashore until he was assured of his sister’s safety. At his command, their small fleet anchored in the cove, a dinghy was lowered into the water, and its crew began to row toward the beach.
It was a harvest sky, a cloudless, crystalline blue, but the wind held a wintry tang and a thief’s touch, robbing them of the warmth they had the right to expect from a September sun. It carried off Maude’s veil as she leaned over the gunwale, but she did not appear to notice, her eyes never straying from the English shoreline. Ranulf was not surprised when Minna soon emerged from their canvas tent, another veil in hand. She was ashen, for she’d been seasick for much of the voyage, but she resolutely lurched toward the prow of the ship, determined to see her lady well coiffed or die in the attempt. Ranulf thought they made an odd pair, the elegant empress and the stout German widow. He could not see why Maude had chosen the stolid, taciturn Minna as a companion, and if there was a fondness between them, it was unspoken, not overt. But Minna had been there when Maude buried her first husband, when she was compelled to wed Geoffrey of Anjou, when she nearly died in childbed, and God Willing, she would be there when the Archbishop of Canterbury placed Stephen’s stolen crown upon Maude’s head.
Amabel’s ladies had followed Minna from the tent, and much to Ranulf’s amusement, began to express their dismay at the lack of quays or wharves. He laughed outright when Amabel lost patience with Agnes’s whining and threatened to let her swim ashore, but when the women turned to glare at him, he prudently withdrew, joining Maude and Robert at the ship’s prow. “Am I the only one,” he wondered aloud, “who cannot sail from Barfleur without thinking of the White Ship?”
“I expect we all do,” Maude said, and then, “What is taking so long? They ought to have been back by now!”
“Arundel is three or four miles distant from the sea,” Robert pointed out calmly. “They’ll be here soon.”
Maude continued to fret, infecting Ranulf and Rainald with her sense of urgency. But Robert was right; it was not long before one of their scouts rode into view, well mounted upon a horse from Arundel’s stables. Reining in at the water’s edge, he cupped his hands, and his triumphant shout came echoing across the waves like a clarion call to battle. “All is well, my lady! Come ashore and claim your crown!”
Robert sent the women ashore in the dinghy, for they could not be expected to hike up their skirts and splash through the shallows like men. They were preparing to beach their ships so the horses could be unloaded when their escort arrived from Arundel Castle.
William d’Aubigny was in the lead, and Adeliza rode proudly at his side, mounted on a snow-white mule. The Fair Maid of Brabant was now in her late thirties, although she looked years younger, a German Lorelei, who instinctively knew what Maude had never learned-that charm could be a formidable female weapon. Her new husband shared her easygoing nature and carefree approach to life, and it was obvious, even in those first few moments, that Adeliza’s second marriage was far happier than her first. William d’Aubigny shared her coloring, too; they were both flaxen-haired and blue-eyed, vibrant with health and energy. They would, Maude thought, have handsome children. And then, as Adeliza slid from the saddle, Maude stared, for her friend’s mantle had fallen open, revealing a slim waist encircled by a braided belt of scarlet silk.
Adeliza saw her surprise and laughed, stretching out her hands in welcome. “Yes, I have a waistline again… and a robust son asleep in the solar. So you see, Maude, not only can we offer you a safe haven at Arundel, but a new subject, too!”
Arundel castle was situated on a high, narrow ridge overlooking the River Arun. It was strategically significant, commanding the approach between the South Downs and the sea, and a small town had grown up in its protective shadow. On the east and south it was defended by the steep angle of its slopes, on the north and west by deep ditches. Appraising its formidable defenses with a soldier’s eye, Robert was comforted by what he found. Arundel would be a secure haven, just as Adeliza had promised. He could leave his sister and wife here and not fear for their safety.
They had assembled in the lower bailey to bid him Godspeed. His men were already mounted. They’d sailed with one hundred forty knights, but he was taking only twelve with him, leaving the rest to defend Arundel. Having thanked Adeliza and her husband, he kissed Maude’s hand and sought to coax a smile from Ranulf, who was noticeably disgruntled at being left behind. And then Robert turned, walked toward his silent wife.
They had said their private farewells earlier that afternoon. This public leave-taking was restrained, circumspect. But he knew her too well; he could read her fear in the taut set of her shoulders, the uneasy fluttering of her lashes. “Ah, Amabel,” he said softly, “you need not look so bereft. I’ll get to Bristol safe and sound, will rally our men and be back ere you have time to miss me.”
She managed a bright, hollow smile, for she would not send him away with recriminations echoing in his ears, would not have him regret agreeing to bring her with him. “Go with God, Robert,” she said bravely.
She held on to her smile until Robert and his men rode through the gateway. Arundel did not have a tower keep; its motte was encircled by a stone wall, with lodgings built within the enclosure. It was toward that shell keep that Amabel fled, rushing breathlessly up onto the battlements, where she kept a lonely vigil, watching until her husband was out of sight.
Maude was usually an early riser, but during her week at Arundel, she’d been sleeping late, for she’d been staying up late with Adeliza; they had four years to catch up on. Soon after daybreak on Saturday, though, she was jolted awake by the sound of a fist thudding against her bedchamber door. As she sat up groggily, half blinded by her own hair-for she’d been too tired to bother with her customary night plait-the door was flung open. Minna started forward, indignant at this invasion of Maude’s privacy; such an intrusion would have been unheard-of at the German court. But by then Ranulf was in the room, with Adeliza on his heels, an Adeliza flushed and disheveled, obviously just roused from bed. “Maude,” she cried, “Maude, we are under siege!”
Maude was lodged in the gatehouse, for its upper chamber was spacious enough to satisfy even an empress’s imperial tastes. She fumbled for her bed-robe as Ranulf strode to the window and jerked back the shutters. The window opened onto the west, offering a view of the village High Street, the clustered thatched houses, the steeple of the parish church, and to the south, the silvered gleam of the River Arun, swift-flowing toward the sea. But Maude saw none of those familiar sights. She saw only the battle banners catching the wind, heard only the drumming of hooves upon the sun-dried Downs above the town.
“Stephen,” she breathed, staring out upon her cousin’s army.
The herald rode boldly toward the castle walls. “I have a message for the Lady Adeliza and the Lord William d’Aubigny,” he called, “and my lord king says you’d best heed it well. You are sheltering the Countess of Anjou, an
