Stephen would have seen to her safety had the castle fallen to him.
“I’d wager she even enjoyed herself,” a new voice now chimed in, and Maud turned to grin at her elder brother Will, then stuck out her tongue as if she were still his pesky little sister and not an earl’s wife.
“We will be departing on the morrow,” Robert said, “and I want you to come back with us, Maud. Your mother will not believe you are truly safe and well until she sees you with her own eyes.”
“Of course I’ll come back with you! Do you think I’d miss being there when Aunt Maude learns that we’ve won?” Maud sounded so excited that Robert smiled. He knew that even among those who’d become disillusioned with Stephen’s rule, the news of the Battle of Lincoln would be greeted with ambivalence, with both expectation and unease. But at least one of his sister’s subjects had no doubts whatsoever. Maude’s niece and namesake was utterly delighted that her aunt was-at long last-to be England’s queen.
This was the first time that they’d been alone since the battle. Ranulf hesitated, then rose and crossed the chamber to Stephen’s side. “Can I get you anything?” he asked, sounding as awkward as he felt. He’d not expected this, to be caught up in a treacherous tide of memory and regrets. He’d not expected to feel Stephen’s pain as if it were his own. “Stephen? Did you hear me?”
Stephen jerked at Ranulf’s touch, looked up at his cousin with clouded eyes. Making an obvious effort, he focused upon the dried blood caking the sleeve of Ranulf’s hauberk. “You’re hurt, lad.”
Ranulf shrugged. “A scratch, although I hope it’ll leave a scar I can brag about.” His humor was forced, for he did not know what to say, wanting to offer Stephen comfort, realizing there was none. He opened his mouth to reassure Stephen that his life was in no danger, only to stop, defeated. What solace could Stephen derive from the promise of a lifetime’s confinement? For how could they ever let him go?
Ranulf was still groping for words when the door opened and Robert entered, followed by Maud, her brother Will, and Brien Fitz Count. Stephen started to get to his feet, only to discover that his abused muscles were cramped and constricted, beginning to stiffen. Robert saw his involuntary grimace and waved him back into his chair, seating himself on the other side of the table. “I am sorry it is taking so long to find you a doctor,” he began, but Stephen was indifferent to his own injuries.
“I ask nothing for myself,” he said. “But I do for my wife and children. Have I your word, Robert, that they’ll not suffer for any sins of mine?”
Robert’s response was as prompt as it was predictable. “Of course,” he said. “No harm will come to them, I promise you. Nor need you worry about your son’s right to inherit the county of Boulogne, since that is Matilda’s legacy.”
Matilda’s legacy. That was all Eustace had left now, for his paternal legacy was to have been England’s crown. Nothing in Stephen’s past had prepared him for this moment, for he’d been born with an infinitely deep reservoir of hope, and he’d never before experienced the sort of suffocating, dark despair that engulfed him now. It was more frightening even than the final moments of the battle, for war he knew, but desperation was an alien emotion to him. He could not give in to it, though, not here, not before these men. Grabbing for his forgotten wine cup, he drained it in several deep swallows, and then raised his head defiantly.
They were watching him intently, but he did not find in their faces what he’d dreaded-mockery or, Jesu forfend, pity. “What of Baldwin de Clare?” he asked huskily. “William Peverel and the lad, Gilbert de Gant? What befell them?”
“Baldwin de Clare suffered some grievous wounds. Peverel? That I know not, but I’ll find out for you. The Gant stripling was lucky, for his injuries are trifling.”
“And the townspeople?” Stephen made himself ask, although he already knew what Robert would say.
“There will be looting,” Robert said matter-of-factly. “It is a soldier’s right and we cannot cheat them of it. I’ve not been into the city yet, but I heard that many of the townsmen fled to the wharves and sought to escape on the river. They panicked and overloaded the boats, which quickly sank in those flood-tide currents. I was told that hundreds may have drowned.”
“Christ pity them,” Stephen said softly. He’d failed them, too, these wretched citizens of Lincoln, whose only sin was believing he could protect them. He slumped back in the seat, shading his face with his hand. How many others were going to suffer for his mistakes?
The door whipped back, banging into the wall with such force that they all jumped. The Earl of Chester’s head was swathed in a wide white bandage, and his face was drawn and pinched, his skin ashen. But his dark eyes were smoldering, reflecting enough rage to prevail over any bodily infirmities, even those inflicted by a Danish axe. His gaze flicked from Stephen’s face to his bandage, down to his wine cup, back to his face again. “How very civilized,” he said acidly, “the victors sitting around and sharing wine with the vanquished.” Striding forward into the chamber, he gave Ranulf a derisory glance in passing. “Forget whose side you were fighting on, did you, boy?”
Ranulf bristled, but Robert was close enough to put a calming hand on his arm, and he quieted. Stephen pushed away from the table, got slowly to his feet as Maud moved between them, favoring her husband with her most solicitous smile.
“You look dreadful, love, and must feel even worse, after all you’ve been through this day. Why not go up to our bedchamber and get yourself some well-earned rest? I’ll fetch a potion for your head and-”
“I do not need to be coddled! I’m neither enfeebled nor infirm, and if I wanted a potion, woman, I’d damned well say so!”
Maud was accustomed to her husband’s temper tantrums. But she did not like being reviled in front of her father and Stephen, and she snapped back, “Next time you nearly get your head split open, I will not even mention it, I promise!”
“I did not get my head split open! I took a glancing blow, and a paltry one at that!”
“Enough of this foolishness,” Robert said testily, and Ranulf joined in with an unsolicited, sardonic comment about Chester’s helmet, “flattened out like a Shrove Tuesday pancake.” But it was Stephen who put an abrupt halt to Chester’s marital quarrel.
“Do not blame your wife because you could not best me on the field. The failure was yours, not hers,” he said, with such scorn that Chester’s face flamed and his hand clenched on the hilt of his sword.
“You’re an even bigger fool than I suspected,” Chester said scathingly. “You ceased being a threat to the Lady Maude several hours ago. Now you are merely an inconvenience, and I daresay I’m not the only one thinking it a pity that you were not slain on the field. But even a minor battle wound can prove fatal afterward…if need be. I’d bear that in mind if I were you.”
Stephen felt no fear, for at that moment, the prospect of living with defeat and disgrace was more daunting to him than death. “You’ll have to rely upon your Welsh hirelings for the killing,” he jeered, “since you proved that you are not man enough to do it yourself.”
“You are a dead man, I swear it!”
“No, by God, he is not!” Robert’s hand had dropped to his own sword hilt. Only Amabel and Maude knew him better than those in this solar, but none of them had ever seen him so outraged, or even thought him capable of such fury. “This man is my prisoner, not yours. Whatever our differences, he is still a consecrated king. And were he but a cotter’s son, he’d deserve our respect for the courage he showed on the battlefield this day. Do not threaten him again.”
Chester glared at Robert, but his father-in-law was one of the few men he could not intimidate and he knew it. “So be it,” he said grudgingly. “But if we would hang a man for stealing a loaf of bread, why should we honour him for being ambitious enough to steal a crown? You’d do well to think on that, for I’d wager the Lady Maude sees it as I do.” He did not wait for a response, shoved past his brother, who was just entering the solar, and stalked out in disgust.
His brother caught up with him at the bottom of the stairs, trailed him out into the bailey, asking questions Chester did not want to answer. He was still seething, and his head was throbbing so wildly now that he felt queasy. The bailey was fast filling with men: wounded in need of treatment, prisoners to be confined until they could ransom themselves, soldiers in search of food and ale, castle servants sent out to retrieve bodies and round up stray horses. Chester’s brother had been waylaid by an irate Baldwin de Redvers, who was berating him loudly for using his sister as bait for their trap. William de Roumare was shouting back, reminding Baldwin that Hawise was his wife and he had the right to use her as he saw fit. Chester paid them no heed, and as men glanced his way, they prudently cleared a path for him.
He’d almost reached the great hall when he heard his name called out. He turned as the Welsh prince Cadwaladr reined in beside him. “Why do you look so sour? I know English customs can be right peculiar,” the
