own right, it offered one last burst of brightness in the winter’s dark. On this Twelfth Night, Christians bade farewell to the joy and light of Christmastide, while bracing themselves for the bleakness of the looming Lenten season of sacrifice and self-denial.
Gloucester Castle’s great hall had been newly whitewashed, fresh, fragrant rushes laid down, and enough candles and torches lit to banish all but the most tenacious shadows, for Maude was determined that her Epiphany revelries be perfect in all particulars. Her cooks had prepared an elaborate feast: fresh herring, stewed capon, savory rice, a spectacular roasted peacock refitted with feathers, rissoles of beef marrow, pea soup, Lombardy custard, and nut sweetmeats, served with spiced red wine and hippocras and a sweet white malmsey. Afterward, a French minstrel from the sun-warmed South sang and strummed a gittern and recited verses from a highly popular chanson, The Song of Roland. But his performance was cut short by the arrival of shocking news from the North- that the Earl of Chester had seized control of Lincoln Castle.
No one had any more interest in hearing of Roland’s epic deeds, and for the remainder of the evening, there was but one topic of conversation, speculation about Chester’s duplicity and Stephen’s likely response. Opinion was united on the former, that Chester’s greed had deranged his senses, and decidedly mixed on the latter, some sure Stephen would have to retaliate, others equally certain that he would once again turn a blind eye, as he had done so often in the past. All were hopeful that this astonishing turn of events would somehow rebound to Maude’s benefit.
Robert and Amabel were furious, stunned that Chester would have so risked their daughter’s safety. A woman was expected to defend her husband’s castle if it was besieged in his absence, but it was unheard-of to use a wife as Chester had done, as a decoy. Baldwin de Redvers was likewise outraged, for his younger sister Hawise was William de Roumare’s wife. Their concern cast a pall over the festivities. Robert and Amabel soon excused themselves, intent upon dispatching a messenger to Lincoln at first light, bearing a demand that Chester get their daughter out of that castle straightaway. Miles Fitz Walter was no longer in a festive mood, either; he’d had a quarrel earlier that evening with his eldest son, and both he and Roger were still out of sorts. Once the Fitz Walters had withdrawn, too, there seemed no reason to linger. Maude dismissed the minstrels, and her guests went off to bed.
But Maude was too restless to sleep. She wandered aimlessly about her chamber, failed to find a book that could hold her interest, and finally snatched up her mantle. The great hall was already dark, beds laid out where trestle tables had stood earlier in the evening. Maude moved quietly down the center aisle, out into the inner bailey.
It was cold, but the wind had died down and the starlit sky was clear of clouds. It had snowed earlier in the week, and most of it had been trampled into a dingy grey slush. But white still glistened along the south wall, protected by Maude’s garden fence. Maude liked snow, liked the way it blurred harsh edges and hid ugliness and made the world seem new and pure and pristine. Pushing open the garden gate, she sat down on a wooden bench. Her thoughts soon carried her far from Gloucester, and she started violently when a voice said, very close at hand, “Lady Maude? May I be of service?”
Maude flushed self-consciously; she hated to be caught off guard, to be watched unaware. But the interloper was a man she valued, and she bit back a dismissive retort, forcing a smile, instead. “Thank you, Brien, but nothing is amiss. I just could not sleep. What about you? Why are you not abed at such an hour?”
Brien shrugged. “I could not sleep, either,” he said, and looked pleased when Maude beckoned him toward her bench. He smiled as he sat beside her, and she found herself thinking that she liked his smile, liked so much about Brien Fitz Count-his insight and his loyalty and his competence; everything he did, he did well. He did not intrude now upon her privacy, seemed content to sit in silence, until or if she chose to speak. Maude appreciated his reticence, and soon realized that she did want to talk, after all.
“I had a letter this week from my son Henry,” she said. “His own letter, the first one that was not written for him by his tutor or a scribe…”
Her voice trailed off, as if she’d lost interest, but Brien knew better. He studied her profile, thinking that most women benefited from the more subdued, softer lighting cast by candles or stars, but not Maude. She looked her best in the bright light of day, able to take the sun’s glare full on, without flinching. “It troubled you, this letter?” he asked, and after a moment or so, she nodded.
“Henry asked me if I was ever coming back,” she said, and he thought he heard her sigh. “I’ve not seen my sons for more than a year, Brien, nigh on sixteen months. If this war drags on long enough, I’ll not even know them upon my return. They’ll be strangers…”
He would not trivialize her pain with facile denials or comforting banalities. The truth was that she’d never get back the time she’d lost with her sons. Childhood could not be relived; children grew up, and a quest for a crown could last for years. “To be a mother and a queen, too,” he said at last, “must be a burden no man could fully comprehend.”
“No man needs to understand, for no man needs to bear it,” she said, with more than a trace of bitterness. “What makes it so hard, Brien, is that I see no end in sight. Sometimes I find myself wondering where I will be in five years. Will I still be at Gloucester or Bristol, clinging to my shredded hopes whilst Stephen clings to his stolen crown? All I know for certes is that in five years, Henry will be almost thirteen.”
“I truly believe you will one day reclaim your crown,” he said softly, and she turned to look at him with a brief, bleak smile.
“I do, too,” she said, “most of the time. I am not often so downhearted, for I do not let myself dwell upon my disappointments or defeats. But none of the Christmas news has been good. Lord knows, the tidings from Cornwall have been dismal. Rainald is holding on to the one Cornish castle he has left, but Stephen has the shire, and Rainald’s prospects grow dimmer by the day. He has been excommunicated by the Bishop of Exeter, who blames him for the damage done to a Launceton church, and his wife…Rainald tries to make light of it in his letters, Brien, but others tell me the girl was so distraught and fearful at being caught up in the fighting that her wits have been affected. She weeps all the time and hears voices and cannot be left alone lest she do herself harm.”
“I’d heard the lass was…overwrought,” Brien admitted. “But just as those sick of body can heal, so, too, can the sick of mind. You must not give up hope, Lady Maude.”
“I inhale hope with every breath I take,” Maude said ruefully. “But lately it seems that if anything can go wrong, by God, it does. Robert is at odds with his younger son, Philip, as I expect you know; it is no secret that Robert rebuked Philip for being needlessly brutal during the assault upon Nottingham. And now he and Amabel have Maud to worry about, too. Miles is another whose temper is on the raw, and the same can be said for Baldwin de Redvers. In truth, everywhere I turn these days, I see naught but discontented, surly men and fretful wives.”
“What of Ranulf?” he protested. “That lad is cheerful enough to raise all sorts of suspicions!”
“How true,” she conceded. “If Ranulf were a cat, I’d be checking his whiskers for cream!”
They both laughed, and then Maude surprised herself by saying, “You’ve been a good friend, Brien, for longer than I can remember. You helped me get through the worst time of my life, and I never thanked you…not until now.”
She did not need to elaborate; he understood. Their memories were suddenly functioning as one, taking them back more than thirteen years. She had been twenty-five, and no longer able to resist her father’s will, agreeing at last to wed Geoffrey of Anjou. On her betrothal journey from England to Normandy, the old king had entrusted her to the custody of his eldest son, Robert, and his foster son, Brien. They had carried out the king’s charge, escorted Maude to Rouen for the plight troth, and the following year she and Geoffrey had been wed at Le Mans.
“Why should you thank me? I did as the king bade, turned you over to Geoffrey of Anjou, when I ought to have hidden you away where he could never have found you.”
Maude was startled. “You did what you could, Brien. You made me feel-without a word being said-that you understood, that you were on my side. That may not sound like much, but it was.”
“If I had it to do over again…” His smile held no humor, just a disarming flash of self-mockery. “I suppose I’d do the same, however much I’d like to think I would not. But my regrets would be so much greater, knowing as I do now how miserable he’d make you. I never forgave your father for that, for forcing you to wed a man so unworthy of you-” He stopped abruptly, and a tense, strained silence followed, which neither of them seemed able to break.
Maude was staring at Brien, a man she’d known all her life, and seeing a stranger. Had she lost her wits altogether? How could she have confided in him like this? She’d long ago learned to keep her fears private, her pain secret, all others at a safe distance, yet here in a barren winter garden, she’d lowered her defenses, allowing Brien
