again, and she lingered there in the quiet castle chapel, trying not to think of Constance’s tear-streaked face. That hellspawn Mandeville would not harm her; Matilda knew that. But their parting had been wrenching, the child’s piteous sobs echoing in her ears even after they’d escaped the Tower. For that was how Matilda saw their departure-as an escape. She did not doubt that Mandeville would have kept them all there, hostages to win Maude’s favor, if not for the Londoners. But public opinion was still on Stephen’s side, and even Mandeville dared not risk the Londoners’ wrath by seizing Stephen’s wife and children.
She’d discussed with Cecily the advisability of taking her children to Boulogne, but she was loath to leave England and she could not bear to be separated from them. If only there were someone she could turn to, someone she could trust. Stephen’s brother Theobald would be sympathetic once he learned of Stephen’s downfall, but what could he do at a distance? He could not rally support for Stephen, not from Blois. The bishop could, though. A prince of the Church, a papal legate, lord of some of the most formidable castles in England, he should have been her natural ally, but she’d not yet heard from him; her plea for help had so far gone unheeded. Just like Waleran Beaumont and William de Ypres and those other craven wretches who’d fled the field at Lincoln, she thought bleakly. Stephen’s brother was abandoning him, too.
Had Stephen gotten her letter yet? She’d sent a courier to Gloucester, for where else would he be taken? Surely Maude would give him the letter? She could not be so cruel as to withhold it…could she? Matilda had begun to pace, as if trying to outrun her fears. What lay ahead for Stephen? Maude would not dare put him to death? No, God would not let that happen. Nor would Robert, surely? Stephen’s life was not at risk; she must believe that. But he would be buying his life with his freedom, for they would never let him go. The old king had confined his elder brother for nigh on thirty years. His daughter was not likely to be any more merciful to Stephen.
Caught up in her own thoughts, she was slow to realize that she was no longer alone. A man was standing in the shadows, watching her. “Father Paul?” she asked uncertainly, for the silhouette did not resemble that of the portly chaplain. When he moved forward into the light, she recoiled abruptly. “You!”
William de Ypres strode toward her. “I must speak with you, my lady.”
“You dare to face me after what you did! My husband trusted you and you betrayed him!”
The Fleming had not thought Stephen’s queen capable of such anger. “I know.”
“How could you abandon him after all he’d done for you? You owed him better than that!”
“I know,” he said again, “and I am here to make amends.”
“It is rather late for that,” Matilda snapped. “Why are you really here? What do you want?”
“I told you-to make amends. I did your husband a grave wrong and I want to right it if I can.”
Some of Matilda’s rage gave way to astonishment. “You expect me to believe you? If you have a conscience, you’ve kept it remarkably well hidden in the years I’ve known you!”
“It was a surprise to me, too,” he admitted, “and it is a right inconvenient discovery at this time of my life. I’d gotten along quite well without one up till now.” But his humor fell flat. She continued to look at him suspiciously, and he shrugged. “If I am not sincere, why am I here? Why am I not off selling my sword-and my Flemings-to the highest bidder, to Maude?”
She opened her mouth, but she could not think of an answer to that, and for the first time, she began to take him seriously. “I do not understand what you are telling me. If you truly regret deserting Stephen, why did you do it?”
He shrugged again. “There is not much time for reflection in the midst of a battle. When my Flemings broke and ran, I tried to rally them. Obviously I did not try hard enough. But I’d not truly taken the measure of the man, not until it was too late, until I learned how he’d refused to flee, willing to fight to the death-”
“But why did he have to buy your loyalty with his blood? My husband is a good and decent man. Why could you not see that sooner?”
“Ah, but I did, Lady Matilda. Stephen has courage and a generous spirit and he is for certes one of the most likeable men I’ve ever met. As you say, he is a good man. But he is not a good king.”
Matilda wanted to protest the unfairness of that verdict. But she did not, and after a moment, she said quietly, almost beseechingly, “Why is that? Why do men think that Stephen is not a good king? I do not understand.”
“Well…” He frowned thoughtfully. “Suppose you had a Greenland falcon, a joy to behold, so handsome he was, whiter than a winter snowfall. A falcon that flies straighter and higher than any arrow, and twice as fast. Every falconer’s dream…except that he falters when it is time to make the kill.”
Once again, Matilda wanted to argue; once again, she did not. “Did you truly mean what you said-about helping Stephen?”
He nodded. “If not, I’d be in Gloucester by now, offering my services and men to Maude. Instead, I am here, offering them to you. I do not-” He got no further; Matilda gave a sudden gasp, clasping her hand to her mouth.
“You are my sign!” she cried. “I begged the Almighty to show me how to aid Stephen, and He did, He sent you to me!”
William de Ypres burst out laughing. “I’ve often been called the Devil’s henchman, but this is the first time anyone ever accused me of being one of God’s good angels!” He stopped laughing, though, as he realized that Matilda was utterly in earnest. “I’d not lead you astray, Lady Matilda. It may be too late. And you should know this, too-that many men may have to die to set your husband free. Will you be able to do what must be done to restore him to the throne?”
Matilda hesitated. “I cannot answer that,” she said at last, “for I do not know what might be asked of me. If I could secure Stephen’s freedom by sacrificing his crown, I would. But even if he agreed to abdicate-and I doubt that he would-Maude would still not let him go, for she is not a woman who knows how to trust.”
“Indeed, she is not,” he agreed, “and that is why we must be very cautious. Stephen survived the battle, and they must not regret it-not yet.”
He was pleased to see that his bluntness had not shocked her. She was nodding somberly. “I know,” she said. “That is all I can think about: Stephen’s danger and Maude’s controversial queenship. If I were Maude, I’d be treading with great care and speaking softly, doing whatever I could to dispel men’s doubts and ease their minds.”
“At least until the coronation,” he said dryly. “But you do not think Maude will follow that prudent path, do you?”
“I pray to God she will not,” Matilda said, “for that is the only chance Stephen has. His future, mayhap his very life, depends upon Maude’s making mistakes.”
It was midmorning, but wall torches and cresset oil lamps had been burning for hours in the great hall of Geoffrey d’Anjou’s castle at Angers. Although this last day of February was sunlit and clear, it was still too cold to open the shutters. A desk had been set up in a corner for study, and Henry was hunched over a primer, his face hidden by a tumbling thatch of copper-gold hair.
Geoffrey resented his brother’s absorption in the book, for he felt it keenly that Henry could read and he could not. He was still learning his letters, and he was supposed to be practicing them now, copying the Christcross row their tutor had etched onto a wax tablet. But the alphabet held no charms for Geoffrey, and his parchment sheet remained blank. Instead, he’d been amusing himself by aligning and realigning his writing supplies: a pumice stone to erase mistakes, a boar’s tooth to polish the parchment afterward, a small knife to trim his quill pen, a ruler to make margins, and his favorite, an inkhorn made from a real cow’s horn, stuck down into a hole in the desk to minimize spills.
Geoffrey set the pumice stone on its end, was attempting to balance the ruler on top of it when he glanced up, saw their tutor heading their way. He hastily dunked the quill in the inkhorn, drew a large, crooked A on the parchment. Master Peter had stopped by Henry first, complimenting him for having gotten through most of the Pater Noster. Geoffrey slopped a B onto the page, splattering ink upon his sleeve. Fortunately Master Peter seemed in no hurry, for he was still talking to Henry, joking about his birthday next week.
Geoffrey scowled, putting down his pen. That was all anyone talked about these days, Henry’s upcoming birthday. He was so jealous of the attention Henry was getting that he forgot he was likely to receive a scolding for his own lackluster efforts. But luck was with him, for Master Peter was now being called away. Instead of putting his reprieve to good use, though, Geoffrey leaned over and dribbled ink onto Henry’s side of the desk. “So you are going to be eight,” he said. “So what? I’ll be eight in June.”
