retribution, he stalked off to do as his mother bade, and Matilda turned her efforts to comforting her daughter-in- law.
Constance was the older of the two children, eleven to Eustace’s ten, although none would have guessed it by appearance, for Eustace was a swaggering, handsome boy, as yellow-haired and bold as a Viking, tall for his age, and Constance’s fairness was ethereal, even fey. She had the flaxen hair and blue eyes and shy nature of her elder brother the French king. Like Louis, she yearned for approval, and like Louis, she could be surprisingly stubborn. But most of the time she was quite biddable, eager to do what was expected of her, fearful of disappointing…fearful, too, of Eustace.
They had been betrothed that past February, wed on the last Sunday before Advent. Constance would be raised at the English court, learning the customs and ways of her new homeland, and when she and Eustace were of an age to consummate their marriage, they would share a bed. It was a common arrangement, but Matilda was already uneasy, sensing that they were poorly matched, this little French fawn and her wolf-cub son.
It was not easy to admit, for Eustace was her flesh and blood and she did love him. For some time, though, she had been troubled by what she was seeing in her son. He had known how Constance had looked forward to this evening-a chance to attend the Christmas fete, to sit at the high table and take part in the carol and wear a grown-up gown of moss-green silk. In spoiling her pleasure, Eustace had been playing no mere prank; it was a meanspirited act, the act of a bully.
Matilda had tried at first to find mitigation for her son’s misbehavior, tried to convince herself that she was exaggerating the significance of his petty sins, sins common to all boys of spirit. But once her eyes were opened, she saw shadows at every turn. Her younger son had too many bruises; no child fell down that often. Four-year-old Mary had begun to shrink back whenever Eustace was nearby. Her own spaniel would not approach the boy, and Stephen’s favorite greyhound was equally wary. There was an awkward incident involving a one-legged beggar who claimed Eustace had stolen his crutch, an accusation he’d hastily retracted upon learning the boy’s identity. And then there was the day when Eustace was seen flinging a cat from an upper-story window. He’d been quite forthright when confronted, admitted the deed freely, explaining he wanted to see if the cat would land on its feet, as folklore held. But Matilda had been unable to repress a queasy suspicion that he’d hoped to see the cat splatter upon the hard ground below.
She did not want to bother Stephen; he had enough on his trencher as it was. After the cat episode, though, she felt she had no choice. Stephen hadn’t liked what he heard, and he’d given Eustace a stern lecture about the obligations of the highborn, the need to protect those too weak to protect themselves, the duties imposed by chivalry and Christianity, duties which no king’s son could shirk. Afterward, he’d assured Matilda that the lad was quite attentive and whilst denying any wrongdoing, promised to make them proud of him. Boys that age ofttimes went astray, it was to be expected, but they outgrew it, for certes he had.
Matilda very much wanted to believe him, but she could never imagine Stephen-no matter how young- tormenting small children or dumb animals. She no longer shared Stephen’s implicit faith that all would always turn out for the best, and she could not help asking unsettling questions. What if Eustace did not outgrow it? What sort of king would he make? What sort of husband?
She’d engaged a new nurse for her children, one who understood that her duties included a discreet surveillance. But Constance was another matter. If her suspicions about Eustace were correct, the girl’s marriage would be a wretched one. She’d become very fond of Constance, and it distressed her enormously to think of her vulnerable daughter-in-law wed to a brutal husband, and he her own son. Pray God she was wrong, that they had not done Constance a terrible injustice, for she did not believe a crown compensated for all of life’s maladies. She would have to teach the lass to speak up for herself, to show more backbone. A pity the child had not come under the sway of her brother’s wife, for no one would ever call Eleanor of Aquitaine docile or sweetly submissive.
Matilda had to smile at the very thought; during her stay in Paris, she’d been somewhat shocked by Eleanor’s outspokenness, while envying it, too. She’d had to take a much more active part in Stephen’s fight to save his crown than she’d ever envisioned, and she was proud of her accomplishments on Stephen’s behalf, but it was neither easy nor natural for her to play such a role, not as it was for Eleanor.
She could not leave the hall herself, and she looked over her guests until her gaze finally settled upon Robert Beaumont’s daughter Isabel, the Earl of Northampton’s countess. A wife at thirteen, a mother at fifteen, she’d surely sympathize with Constance’s discomfort, and when Matilda beckoned her over, she volunteered at once to assist the child in sponging off her gown, salvaging the remainder of the evening. Watching as Isabel gently steered Constance across the crowded hall, Matilda vowed to have another long, frank talk with her son, one he would not enjoy.
Matilda wanted suddenly to be with her husband. For a few hours, she was not going to fret about Eustace or Constance or Maude or that vile hellspawn Chester. For a few hours, she was going to focus upon Stephen and only Stephen, hoping that his high spirits would be contagious.
But Stephen would have to wait, for one of her guests was bearing down upon her, clearly intent upon interception. She guessed him to be about her own age, midthirties, and her initial impression was of a lord both pleasant and prosperous. While his tunic was not cut in the latest fashion, it was finely stitched and of good-quality wool, and his shoes had silver buckles. He looked like a man who smiled easily and often. He also looked familiar, but his name eluded her. He was shepherding a woman, a slim, dark creature not much taller than Matilda herself, and quite young. Had her hair been loose and her feet bare, she would have looked right at home in a gypsy encampment. She did not look at home at Westminster, and Matilda’s heart warmed toward her, as it did toward all of life’s misfits and orphans and lost lambs.
As they reached her, the man’s name bobbed up from the depths of her memory, just in time for her to say with a smile, “Sir Gervase, it is a pleasure to see you again.”
Her memory’s reprieve won her a lifelong champion. He beamed, so flattered to be remembered by the queen that it was a moment before he recollected himself. “Madame, may I present my wife, Annora?”
The girl curtsied hastily, murmuring a conventional response, then raised her lashes to reveal brilliant black eyes. “The little lass…was that the Lady Constance?” It was soon apparent to Matilda that Constance was merely a conversational bridge, meant to get Annora Fitz Clement where she wanted to go-across the Channel to the French court, home of Constance’s celebrated sister-in-law. “You met the French queen, my lady. Is she as fair as men claim? I heard that she does just as she pleases, says whatever is on her mind, and yet the French king dotes on her every whim! Can that be true?”
Matilda stifled a laugh, amused both by Annora’s candor and the faintly wistful tone. She tried then to think of a diplomatic way to deflect Annora’s curiosity, but Annora’s husband was quicker.
“You cannot ask questions like that, lass. Queens do not gossip.” His laugh was indulgent, his rebuke kindly meant, but Matilda saw it was not kindly taken; color had flared in the girl’s face and the corners of her mouth drooped.
“Well…in truth, Sir Gervase, queens fancy gossip, too. For certes, I do,” Matilda lied cheerfully. “Queen Eleanor is indeed a beauty, with green-gold cat eyes and a cat’s elegant grace. She has a cat’s confidence, too, and I suspect that would be true whether she wore a crown or not. She is lively and quick-witted and strong-willed and worldly, but very young, withal, only eighteen or thereabouts,” Matilda concluded, satisfied that she’d given Annora an intimate glimpse of the French queen she so admired and envied, but without saying anything hurtful or too revealing.
There was still so much Annora yearned to know about the French queen, questions she could never have asked in front of her husband, for she had convinced herself that Eleanor would have been willing to brave scandal for a lover’s sake. She needed to believe that not all the women in her world had their wings clipped; surely there must be a few still able to soar up into the sky, untamed and fearless and free. She smiled at Matilda, torn between gratitude and guilt. Why did Stephen’s queen have to be so likable? Pray God she’d somehow survive Stephen’s fall.
It was the sudden break in the music that caught their attention. The carol had not ended; it just stopped in midnote. Heads were turning toward the door, where several of Stephen’s guards were scuffling with a very determined intruder. Even as they dragged him away, he was shouting that it was life or death, he must see the king.
Whether it was due to courtesy or curiosity, Stephen was almost always willing to hear a man out. “Let him approach,” he commanded, and a path cleared among the dancers.
The man was exhausted, staggering with fatigue. When he sank to his knees before Stephen, it seemed more
