other signs of unease. Maude halted in front of him and waited, silently daring him to defy her, for she could imagine only two possible responses: defiance or submission. But Stephen found a third way: courtesy. “Lady Maude,” he said, and before she realized what he meant to do, he reached for her hand and brought it to his mouth.
Maude was outraged. It was repentance she wanted, not gallantry. Jerking her hand away, she said scathingly, “I am not the lady of the manor come to bid you welcome. I am your sovereign, and I expect you to show me the respect due your queen, I expect you to kneel!”
Stephen sought to remain impassive, but he could not keep the color from rising in his face. By now it was very quiet, all eyes upon them. “As you wish,” he said, and slowly knelt before her.
She’d won, but somehow it did not feel like a victory. Maude glanced around at the encircling men. They were watching intently, too intently, and she wondered suddenly if they were remembering Stephen’s magnanimous gesture at Arundel. Turning toward Robert, she demanded, “Why is this man not in irons? If the theft of a crown does not warrant it, what crime does?”
“I did not think it necessary,” Robert said, rather stiffly. “He gave me his word that he would not attempt to escape, and so-”
“His word?” Maude echoed derisively. “Is that the same word that he pledged to me when he swore to accept my queenship?”
Stephen had gotten to his feet, although she had not given him permission to rise. She wanted to protest, to force him back onto his knees. She wanted to order him clapped in irons, as he so deserved. But she was stopped by what she saw in the faces of the watching men: disapproval, instinctive and involuntary, but disapproval, nonetheless. They were not comfortable when power was wielded by a woman, not at a man’s expense, a man who had just acquitted himself so spectacularly at Lincoln, winning their reluctant respect in a way she knew she never could. The brotherhood of the battlefield, she thought, feeling a sharp sense of betrayal as she looked about at the silent spectators. These were her kinsmen, men who’d sacrificed and bled for her cause. If even they doubted her right to rule as a man could, how would she ever convince the others?
It was a bitter moment for her, gazing upon her defeated rival as her triumph threatened to turn to ashes before her eyes. But no, she’d not let that happen. She would prove to them that she was worthy to rule. She knew what her father would have done, and she would show them that she was her father’s daughter, England’s true queen-by God, she would.
“I want this man put under close guard,” she said, “and I want it done now.”
Stephen was steeling himself for confinement in one of the castle dungeons. He was relieved to find that his prison was to be a small but comfortable bedchamber in the keep, albeit with a guard posted at the door. This was the first time he’d been alone since the Battle of Lincoln, and he lay down upon the bed without shedding his clothes, grateful for the solitude.
He’d known that his encounter with Maude would be a daunting one, and so it was, for he found it very disquieting to have a woman as his enemy. He could not deflect her hostility with defiance, as he had with Chester. His dealings with Robert were free of rancor, for they both knew what was expected of them under the circumstances. Not so with Maude. None of the rules of warfare seemed to apply, for Maude neither knew nor cared what they were.
His scene with Maude had been unpleasant, but surprising, too, in a way he had not foreseen. Maude and he shared the same inability to camouflage their emotions, and the emotions he’d read on Maude’s face were anger, frustration, and chagrin, not triumph. If he had not enjoyed their confrontation, neither had she. Much to his astonishment, he’d even felt a flicker of pity for her plight, for he’d suddenly seen the truth-that there would be no winners in their war. He was facing lifelong confinement at Bristol or Gloucester, and Maude was about to discover that her English subjects still did not want her as queen. She was blazing a trail on her own, and there in the great hall at Gloucester Castle, he’d realized that she did not even have a map. Whatever happened to him, he doubted that she’d reach Westminster.
Stephen folded his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. But it made no sense, not that he and Maude should both lose. A ship with no helmsman would soon founder, and so would England. How could that be part of the Almighty’s Plan? Was it possible that he’d been too quick to conclude that he knew the Lord’s Will? What if his loss at Lincoln was not God’s Judgment upon him? Mayhap the Lord God had not abandoned him, after all. The Almighty had seen fit to test Job, so why not His servant Stephen? Mayhap that was why he’d lost the Battle of Lincoln-so that he might prove his faith was strong, that he was indeed worthy to be England’s king.
This was the first glimmer of light in the dark that had descended upon Stephen’s world at Lincoln. The loss of hope had been a crueler loss even than his crown, for he’d never known what it was like to live without hope-not until this past week, riding as a prisoner along the muddy winter roads of his own realm. Stephen needed hope as he needed air to breathe, and he lunged toward the light. It did not take much to convince him; he was halfway down the path toward conviction by the time he heard voices at the door.
He was sitting up on the bed as the door opened. His guard stepped aside, and Stephen smiled at sight of Ranulf, beckoning him inside as if he still had that right.
Ranulf seemed ill at ease, as if he’d somehow ended up in Stephen’s chamber through no doing of his own. “I…I just wanted to see if you need anything.”
Stephen considered. “Well, how about a fast horse and a head start?” he suggested, and Ranulf grinned, pleased by this proof that Stephen’s sense of humor had not been one of the casualties of Lincoln, after all.
“I’ve no horses to spare,” he said, “but I do not come empty-handed,” and with a dramatic flourish, he unhooked a wine flask from his belt, holding it aloft.
“Sir Ranulf to the rescue,” Stephen joked. But when Ranulf passed him the flask, he put it down, untasted. “There is something you can do for me, lad. Persuade Maude to let me write a letter to my wife. Matilda must be half mad with worry by now.”
“I’ll ask Maude,” Ranulf promised, wishing he could promise more. But he was remembering the obdurate look on his sister’s face, and he was not at all sure that she would heed his plea, for he suspected that Stephen was the last man in Christendom likely to receive any favors from Maude.
London’s justiciar and the leaders of the city’s guilds came to the Tower to bid farewell to Stephen’s queen, and to assure her again that Londoners were still loyal to her husband. Soon after, Geoffrey de Mandeville arrived, ostensibly to wish Matilda Godspeed on her journey to safety in the south of England. But he was not long in revealing the real purpose of his visit. As sorry as he was to see her go, he said, he understood that it was for the best. “I do think, though, that the little Lady Constance ought to stay here at the Tower.”
Matilda stared at him. “I do not agree. My daughter-in-law’s place is with me.”
Geoffrey de Mandeville smiled and shook his head. “I can protect her, madame, make sure that no evil befalls her in these troubled times. I owe her brother that much.”
Her brother. The French king. Matilda understood now. “You are indeed kind to worry about Constance,” she said, as steadily as she could, “but there is no need, I assure you.”
“Ah, but I insist,” he said, still smiling. Matilda looked at him-so elegant, handsome, and urbane-and she had to fight the urge to cross herself, suddenly sure that she was in the presence of true evil.
Matilda had chosen Guildford as her refuge, a fortified castle in the heart of the North Downs. It was only thirty miles from London, but they were braving February weather at its worst, and they did not reach the Wey Valley until dusk on the second day. The sky was dark and foreboding, the wind as cold and desolate as the future they faced in Maude’s England. It took some time before Matilda was able to get her family settled, still longer before she could slip away to the chapel, for the younger children literally clung to her skirts these days, and although Eustace rebuffed all her attempts at comfort, he watched her constantly with bewildered, needful eyes.
The chapel was deserted, but that was what Matilda wanted most: time alone. She was so tired, in body and soul, drained by the need to be strong for her children, her household. Only at night could she give in to her fears, and even then she dared not let herself weep for Stephen, afraid that once she started, she could not stop.
Moving forward into the chancel, she sank to her knees before the candlelit altar. “Lord God Almighty, into Thy Hands and those of Thy Blessed Son I commit myself. Holy Father, hear my prayer. My husband is in great peril, forsaken by those who had most cause to be true. I would help him if only I could, but I do not know how. Show me the way. I beseech Thee, Dear Lord, to send me a sign. Reveal unto me Thy Will.”
Breathing a shaken “Amen,” she got slowly to her feet. But she was not yet ready to take up her burden
