Welshman gibed, “but surely you do celebrate your victories? You won the day for us, so why are you not reaping your reward?”
Why not, indeed? Chester’s eyes had narrowed. He looked past Cadwaladr, toward the east gate and the town. These accursed Lincoln churls had defied his authority, sent for Stephen, and joined in his siege of the castle. “You are right, Cadwaladr,” he said grimly. “This town owes me a debt, and now is as good a time as any to collect it.”
From the twelfth-century Norman chronicle of the monk Orderic Vitalis: “The Earl of Chester and his victorious comrades entered the city and pillaged every quarter of it like barbarians. As for the citizens who remained, they butchered like cattle all whom they found and could lay hands upon, putting them to death in various ways without the slightest pity.”
The wind carried into the castle hall the sound of bells, for Gloucester’s churches were chiming Compline. Maude raised her head, listening until the echoes faded away. She had a book open upon her lap, but she could not focus her thoughts on its pages. This February Friday night seemed endless to her, as had each of the nights in the past month. During the daylight hours, she could keep busy enough to ignore her inner voices, but they grew louder and more insistent as soon as the sky started to darken.
Had they reached Lincoln yet? The wretched roads and winter rain were sure to have slowed them down. And once they got there, what if Stephen refused to do battle? If they had to besiege Lincoln, it could drag on for weeks, even months. How would she ever be able to endure the suspense without going as mad as Rainald’s poor wife?
The hall was the heart of every great household, but at Gloucester Castle, it was beating with a sluggish, uneven rhythm these days. Maude’s servants and retainers had been infected with her unease, and the other women had just as much at stake as she did, for they were wives who might become widows if fortune favored Stephen, and several-like Amabel and Sybil Fitz Walter-had sons at risk, too.
There had been a brief respite earlier in the week, when Amabel arranged a surprise celebration for Maude’s birthday, but tonight the mood was somber. Maude wasn’t the only one finding it difficult to concentrate upon mundane chores or idle pastimes, and when Adelise de Redvers pricked her finger and bled onto her embroidery, her outburst did not seem odd or excessive to the other women, for they understood her need to swear and fling cushions about.
Ranulf’s dyrehunds had been dozing by the hearth. They jumped up suddenly and dashed for the opening door, nearly knocking down Drogo de Polwheile, Maude’s chamberlain. He sidestepped just in time, and as they plunged past him, he hastened toward Maude. “My lady! Your brother has ridden in!”
“Rainald? But I thought he was still in Cornwall-”
“Not Rainald, my lady…Lord Ranulf!”
Maude’s book tumbled down unheeded into the floor rushes. Ranulf? Jesu, what did it mean? Amabel had heard, too, and she paled visibly, stricken with the same fear, for it was too soon. What had gone wrong?
Within moments, Ranulf was coming through the doorway, with his welcoming dyrehunds at his heels and Gilbert Fitz John just a stride behind. They were both mud-splattered, and as Ranulf unfastened his wet mantle, he revealed an arm cradled in a sling. But it was his smile that Maude would long remember, the jubilant, joyful smile of a man bearing gifts of surpassing wonder, with a miracle or two stuffed into his saddlebags, mayhap even a crown.
“Robert sent us on ahead. He said I’d earned the right, that I ought to be the one to tell you-”
“We…we won?”
“Must you sound so surprised?” he teased, beginning to laugh. “Yes, we won! We reached Lincoln on Candlemas Eve, caught Stephen off guard, and fought the next day. We gained a great victory, Maude, by the Grace of God and the justice of our cause, with a bit of help from Stephen’s craven barons.”
“And Stephen?”
“He was taken prisoner, is on his way to Gloucester with Robert. Unless the weather worsens, they’ll be here by Monday.”
Maude had risen to meet Ranulf. Now she sat down abruptly in the nearest chair. Ranulf was assuring Amabel that Robert and her sons had come out of the battle unhurt. The other women were crowding around, excited and anxious, asking about their husbands. Ranulf was able to reassure them, too, and then Amabel wanted to know what he’d meant by “craven barons.” He and Gilbert were quite happy to elaborate, taking turns lambasting the fugitive earls. But Ranulf soon realized that his sister was having very little to say. “Maude?”
She smiled up at him, then got to her feet. “It is late,” she said, “and you must be bone-weary. Gilbert, too. I think we all could benefit from a good night’s sleep.”
Ranulf’s jaw dropped. As he stared at her in astonishment, she leaned over, kissed his cheek. And then she was gone, disappearing so quickly and inconspicuously that the others in the hall did not at once notice she’d left. But Gilbert had overheard their exchange and pulled Ranulf aside. “I do not understand, Ranulf. You told her that she has won her war, that she is to be queen, and she was as calm as if she had crowns to spare. I thought we’d be celebrating till sunrise, and yet off she goes to bed, as if it were any other night!”
Ranulf was just as puzzled as Gilbert. “I expected more, too,” he admitted, unable to mask his disappointment. “Mayhap it does not seem real to her yet…”
The hearth fire had burned low and there was a decided chill in the air. Maude sat down on the edge of the bed, almost at once got up again. Five years and two months. Stephen had stolen more than her crown. He had taken those years, too, and she could not get them back. She had not seen her sons for more than sixteen months, and that also was Stephen’s doing. She would never forgive him, never.
She moved to the hearth, for she’d begun to shiver. She’d thought of this moment so often, during all those nights when she couldn’t sleep and hope dwindled down to bedrock despair, seeking to convince herself that it would truly come to pass, that she would prevail. Only now could she admit just how deep her doubts had gone, seeping into every corner of her soul.
“I won,” she said aloud. “Despite Stephen and Geoffrey and even you, Papa, I did it, I won…” She would bring her sons to England. She need not set foot again in Anjou. And she would never again need a father’s permission, a husband’s consent. She was no longer just a daughter, merely a wife. She would be England’s queen and Normandy’s duchess-and then, the mother of a king.
The door opened quietly behind her. “Madame? You left the hall so suddenly…?”
“I had to, Minna.” She turned, then, for she need not hide her tears now, not from Minna. “I did not want them to see me cry.”
London got its first heavy snow of the season on the same evening that Ranulf reached Gloucester. The city awakened the next morning to deep snow drifts, a sky the shade of pale smoke, and random glimmerings of a pallid winter sun. Matilda’s children were delighted, and dressed with record speed, spurning breakfast in their haste to plunge into the Tower’s glistening, snow-shrouded bailey. Matilda followed at a more sedate pace with Beatrix, the children’s nurse, was soon joined by Cecily de Lacy, her newest lady-in-waiting.
Cecily was a slender young woman in her early twenties, and still unmarried, which was highly unusual for a baron’s daughter. But her father was long dead and her brother seemed unable or unwilling to provide a marriage portion of sufficient size to attract a husband, for although Cecily was appealing in a delicate, subdued sort of way, she also suffered from the “falling sickness,” was subject to occasional seizures that had so far frightened off serious suitors. If she remained unwed, her brother would eventually pressure her into using her meagre marriage portion to buy her way into a nunnery, for those were a woman’s choices-unless she was fortunate enough to be befriended by England’s queen. Upon hearing of Cecily’s plight, Matilda had taken the girl into her household, and she’d promised herself that she’d see Cecily wed to a man able to accept her affliction, for Matilda was beginning to enjoy exercising some of the prerogatives of power.
The snow was no longer pristine and unsullied, bore multiple tracks of paw prints and small feet. Eustace had coaxed or coerced his eleven-year-old wife and his six-year-old brother into helping him build a massive snow fortress; even four-year-old Mary was part of the construction crew, happily scooping out their moat. Matilda’s spaniel, Stephen’s greyhound, and several of the stable dogs were playing a canine version of tag. Matilda was seated on a mounting block, watching the antics of her children and dogs. She smiled at sight of Cecily, sliding over to make room on the block. “Be warned,” she said, “for Eustace is likely to press us into service, too. He has his heart set upon building the biggest snow castle in all of Christendom.”
