“I liked playing in the snow when I was a little lass.” But Cecily did not like Geoffrey de Mandeville, and it was with a distinct lack of enthusiasm that she now reported, “I glanced out the window ere I followed you downstairs, and I saw the Earl of Essex riding toward the Tower.”
Matilda looked puzzled, and then smiled sheepishly. “Stephen has created so many earldoms that I’ve lost count of them, and I forgot for a moment that he’d bestowed one on Geoffrey de Mandeville! I do not suppose we could sneak back inside the keep ere he arrives?”
Cecily grinned, warmed by the indiscretion, proof positive of Matilda’s trust. “I fear not, my lady,” she said regretfully, “for the gates are already opening. But he is constable of the Tower, so mayhap he is not here to see you.”
“He’ll still want to pay his respects, for the man’s manners are always impeccable, Cecily. He has given me no reason to be ill at ease with him, and yet I am. I wish I had not promised Stephen we’d stay at the Tower whilst he besieges Lincoln Castle. Every time I encounter my lord Geoffrey de Mandeville, Earl of Essex, I feel as if I’m the tenant and he’s the landlord and I’ve fallen behind on the rent!”
Cecily gave a surprised giggle, for Matilda joked almost as rarely as she allowed herself to show anger. “Brace yourself then, madame,” she said, “for our landlord is heading this way, and by the look of him, he has eviction in mind!”
Geoffrey de Mandeville did indeed look grim, and the good manners Matilda had admired were nowhere in evidence. “There is no way to sweeten what I have to tell you,” he said abruptly, “so I’d best say it straight out. On Sunday a battle was fought at Lincoln. Your husband’s barons deserted him, and the victory went to the Earls of Gloucester and Chester.”
For a merciful moment, Matilda felt nothing, only a stunned sense of disbelief. “That…that cannot be true,” she faltered. “It must be a mistake-”
“Yes, and Stephen made it! If he’d waited for reinforcements, if he’d not been set on playing the hero-”
“For God’s sake, stop! Just tell me what happened to Stephen! Does…” Matilda swallowed hard. “Does he still live?”
“He survived the battle and was taken prisoner. But-”
“No!” Eustace had moved within earshot, unnoticed by the adults until now. “You lie!” he cried, and flung himself upon Geoffrey de Mandeville, fists flailing, kicking and yelling “Liar” over and over, as if it were the only word he knew.
The man shoved Eustace away, none too gently. The boy stumbled, regained his footing, and spat out an oath that was not at all childlike. But before he could lunge forward again, Matilda pulled him into her arms. “No, Eustace, no! He is not to blame, and hurting him will not help, will change nothing!”
Eustace twisted suddenly, breaking free. He backed up, panting, and glared at his mother as if she were now the enemy, too. “You believe him!” he accused. “But I know it is not true! Papa would not lose to those men!”
“Ah, Eustace…” But Matilda got no further. Her heart was beating so fast that she feared she would faint, and she could not seem to catch her breath. Cecily saw her lose color, darted forward to slip a supportive arm around her waist. By the time she’d gotten back her balance, the bailey was reverberating with shrieks and wailing, for Eustace had turned his rage upon himself. He was destroying his castle, trampling its towers and battlements, kicking snow onto his sobbing little sister and brother, screaming curses at Constance and his nurse when they tried to stop him, until at last he sank to his knees in the snow, choking on his own sobs.
Matilda had reached him by then, knelt and held him as he wept. But he soon stiffened and pulled away, angrily swiping at his tears with the back of his hand. When he scrambled to his feet, she let him go. “No, Beatrix,” she said when the nurse would have followed as he bolted across the bailey toward the stables. “Let him be, at least for now.”
“He survived the battle.” Geoffrey de Mandeville’s words were still echoing in Matilda’s ears, fraught with menace. Would they dare put Stephen to death? She felt as if her head were filled with silent screaming, but she could not let herself think of Stephen’s peril, not yet. Her younger children needed her. They were weeping, clutching at her skirts, terrified by her distress, their brother’s frenzy. Matilda held them close, murmuring soothing sounds until they quieted, clung less frantically. Constance was hovering nearby, trembling and on the verge of tears, in need of comfort, too. And Eustace…she’d have to find Eustace once he calmed down.
But then what? No one would help Stephen if she did not. But how? Dear God, what was she to do?
15
Gloucester, England
February 1141
Maude had been waiting more than five years for this confrontation with Stephen. It had gotten her through some of her worst moments, those wakeful nights when her faith was faltering and despair hovered in the shadows. She had envisioned the scene over and over again, until it began to seem as if she were reliving a memory rather than anticipating one. She would be seated upon a dais, dressed in scarlet silk, wearing the emperor’s emeralds, a gold coronet substituting for the crown that would soon be hers. The hall would be expectant, but respectful, as it had been at the German court. And then Stephen would be brought before her in chains. He would not grovel, not even in her imagination; she knew him too well to expect that. But he would be contrite, for surely she had the right to demand that much?
But when it finally came, this long-awaited reckoning, it was not at all as she had hoped it would be. It went wrong from the very beginning, for they arrived a day early, on Sunday night. Maude had already retired to her own chamber and was making ready for bed when Ranulf came racing up the stairs and pounded on her door. “Maude, dress yourself,” he panted, “and make haste, for Robert has just ridden into the bailey!” He then whirled and plunged down the stairs again, leaving Minna speechless at such a blatant breach of royal etiquette.
Maude was less surprised; as much as she loved Ranulf, she’d long ago concluded that his sense of decorum was deplorable. She had no time, though, to fret about her brother’s flawed manners, no time to select the jewelry and fine clothes she’d planned to wear. Instead of dressing with her usual meticulous care, she found herself hurriedly snatching up her discarded chemise and gown, then gartering her stockings while Minna attempted to rebraid her hair. Grabbing a veil, she was still adjusting it as she emerged, flushed and breathless, from the darkened stairwell into the torch-lit brightness below.
The hall was a scene of chaos. The other women had not been as punctilious about propriety as Maude, and had hastened downstairs in various stages of undress. Everywhere she looked, she saw unbound hair, bare feet, husbands and wives entwined in joyful, welcoming embraces. Her entrance went almost unnoticed in the confusion, and it was several moments before Robert disentangled himself from Amabel’s arms and shoved his way through to her side. Maude reached out, taking his hand in hers. “Thank you,” she said, “for winning back my throne.
“Thank you all,” she added, raising her voice to be heard above the clamor filling the hall, her gaze moving from Robert to Miles and then, briefly, to Brien. They looked tired and wet and travel-stained, but triumphant, too, and one by one, they came forward to receive her praise, Miles and Brien and Baldwin de Redvers and William Fitz Alan, these men who’d wagered their futures upon her queenship, wagered and won.
It was some time before Maude was able to ask Robert the obvious question. “What of Stephen? When will he be brought in?” The answer she got was totally unexpected.
“Oh, he’s already here in the hall. I could not very well leave him out in the rain, could I? Shall I find him for you?”
Maude stared at him in dismay. “Good God, Robert, you’re not letting the man wander about on his own, are you? What if he escapes? What if-”
“Maude, he is being guarded,” Robert said patiently. “Look…there he is, over by the door.”
Maude spun around, saw Stephen was indeed standing by the door, flanked by his guards, like a guest politely waiting to be noticed by his hosts. “Bring him to me,” Maude ordered, but she could not wait for her command to be carried out. She could not wait another moment, and she began to push through the crowd toward Stephen.
Stephen was not looking his best; his mantle was muddied, his head was bandaged, and his eyes were bloodshot, so smudged by shadows that they seemed bruised. He stiffened as Maude approached, but showed no
