Henry prudently moved his book out of ink range. “No, you will not,” he said calmly. “You’ll only be seven.”
As much as Geoffrey yearned to refute that fact, he didn’t know how. “Well…I’ll be eight next year,” he countered, and Henry grinned.
“Yes,” he said, “but then I’ll be nine!”
Geoffrey glowered at his brother. Somehow Henry always seemed to get the better of him. “Birthdays are stupid,” he said, and pretended to stretch, taking the opportunity to prod Henry in the ribs with his elbow. Henry jabbed him back, but his retaliation was halfhearted; he was staring across the hall. Like a cat at a mousehole, Geoffrey thought, looking to see what had claimed Henry’s attention. It was that lady, he decided, Papa’s friend. He wished he knew why Henry disliked her so much, but Henry would not tell him, acting as if he knew a secret no one else did. Sometimes Geoffrey went out of his way to be friendly with the lady, just to vex Henry. But today it was their little brother, Will, who was doing that, holding her hand and laughing as she ruffled his hair. As soon as she moved away, Henry gave a sharp whistle and beckoned to Will, who trotted obediently across the hall in response to the summons.
“I told you to stay away from her, Will,” Henry said accusingly, and Will blinked in bewilderment.
“Why? She tells me riddles, and she smells good, like flowers in the garden, like Mama. She looks like Mama, too-”
“She does not!” Henry glared at the little boy. “She is not at all like Mama!”
For once, Geoffrey and Henry were united in their indignation. “Her hair is as yellow as butter,” Geoffrey pointed out scornfully, “and Mama’s hair is black. You must be daft, Will, if you cannot tell the difference!”
Will’s mouth trembled, and Henry was suddenly struck by an unlikely suspicion. “Will…do you remember what Mama looks like?”
“Of course I do! I remember better than you!” But in truth, Will did not. His mother had been gone a year and a half, and that was almost a third of Will’s lifetime. It had happened so gradually that he was not aware of it, the fading of his memories. There just came a day when he could no longer call up an image of his mother’s face, and now when her letters were read to him, he heard no echoes of her voice. But he could not admit that to his brothers, and he insisted, “I do remember Mama, I do!” before spinning on his heel and running from the hall.
He did not get far, colliding in the doorway with his father. Geoffrey scooped his son up into his arms, and soon had the little boy giggling. Henry and young Geoffrey watched as he strode toward them, Will gleefully riding astride his shoulders, his earlier distress quite forgotten. Setting Will back upon his feet, Geoffrey smiled down at his sons, and it was only then that they saw the letter in his hand.
“Is that from Mama?”
“Yes, Henry, it is, and a remarkable birthday gift she has for you, lad. It seems she has won her war. Your uncles fought a battle with Stephen on Candlemas, at a place called Lincoln. The victory was theirs, and Stephen was taken prisoner.”
“Then Mama will be queen?” This from Henry, and “Will she come home now?” from Geoffrey.
“Yes, she will be queen, and yes, she will come back…in time. But England will be her home now, and Normandy, of course. Once she has been crowned, though, you’ll be able to visit her. Me, too,” Geoffrey said and laughed, for he’d just added a silent, “ when Hell freezes over.”
“You’ll have to go away now, too, Papa,” Henry said, and Geoffrey nodded, surprised and proud that Henry was so quick; he was becoming convinced that his firstborn had been endowed with an uncommonly sharp intelligence.
“Yes,” he said, “I shall have to go into Normandy straightaway. Until Maude is formally recognized as England’s queen and the crown is set upon her head at Westminster, the danger of rebellion remains. It will be up to me to convince the Norman barons to come to terms without delay.”
Henry and Geoffrey had fallen silent, for they understood that when their father rode into Normandy, he would be riding off to war. That had escaped Will, though, for he was still focusing upon the good news, that Mama would be queen. “Will Mama let me wear our crown sometimes?”
Geoffrey hid a smile. But if Will was too young to comprehend the concept of primogeniture, his eldest son was not, as Henry now proved.
“Oh, no, Will,” he said, firmly but not unkindly. “It is not your crown. It is Mama’s and mine.”
A month to the day after the Battle of Lincoln, Maude met with Stephen’s brother the Bishop of Winchester at Wherwell. It was a wet, blustery March afternoon, and they were all shrouded in wool mantles and hoods, for this kingmaking conference was being held in an open field not far from the Benedictine nunnery of the Holy Cross. The mood was almost as cheerless as the weather, for neither the empress nor the bishop truly wished to be there. Theirs was an alliance of expediency, a grudging recognition of unpalatable political realities-that Maude’s claim to the throne needed the sanction of the Church, and the bishop’s ambitions necessitated a cooperative relationship with England’s sovereign.
At this dismal March meeting, they were to ratify already agreed-upon terms, terms Maude liked not at all, for she had reluctantly promised that “all major affairs, especially the bestowal of bishoprics and abbeys, should be subject to the papal legate’s authority.” In return, the bishop had vowed to recognize her as queen and pledged her his loyalty. Maude had let herself be persuaded, but she resented having to concede so much royal autonomy to gain support that should have been hers by right. She did not trust Stephen’s brother the bishop, and even though she knew they needed him as an ally, she could not help despising him a little for abandoning Stephen with such alacrity. Stephen may have been luckier in wedlock, she thought, but not in brotherhood. There she’d been truly blessed, and she glanced proudly at her own brothers Robert and Ranulf and Rainald, newly come back from Cornwall.
Oddly enough, the bishop’s private thoughts were not so far removed from Maude’s musings. He was studying the men flanking her-Robert of Gloucester, Miles Fitz Walter, and Brien Fitz Count-and he was wondering why Maude had been able to attract men of stature and integrity whilst Stephen had relied upon self-serving knaves and malcontents, like the Beaumonts and that treacherous Fleming. If only Stephen had not been so stubborn, so shortsighted. For if Stephen had heeded his advice, he would not now be imprisoned at Bristol Castle and Maude would not be about to set his crown upon that haughty dark head of hers. He’d gotten some impressive concessions from her, more than he’d been able to coax from Stephen, but this was not how he’d wanted it to be. Yet he’d had no choice, for he had to protect the interests of Holy Church. In time, Stephen would come to understand that. Or so he hoped.
From the Gesta Stephani Chronicle: “So that when the bishop and the Countess of Anjou had jointly made a pact of peace and concord, the bishop came to meet her in cordial fashion and admitted her into the city of Winchester, and after handing over to her disposal the king’s castle and the royal crown, which she had always most eagerly desired, and the treasure the king had left there, though it was very scanty, he bade the people, at a public meeting in the market place of the town, salute her as their lady and their queen.”
16
Oxford Castle, England
April 1141
“Beatrice?” Ranulf’s sister-in-law gave him a timid smile and he felt a throb of pity. At a distance, she looked like a child, a little girl borrowing her mother’s gown. Up close, she looked fragile, breakable.
“I have to go, lass,” Rainald said, surprising Ranulf by the gentle way he kissed his wife’s cheek. “My sister has summoned me. But Ella will stay with you whilst I am gone.” Beatrice smiled and nodded, but Ranulf noticed how her hands were clenching in her lap, her fingers knotting in her skirts; her nails were bitten down to the quick, several rimmed in dried blood. Ella had moved protectively to her side, and over Beatrice’s bowed head, her eyes met Rainald’s in a glance of grim reassurance.
Rainald was silent as they moved into the stairwell. But as they neared the bottom, he said abruptly, “She cannot bear to be alone, not even for a heartbeat.”
Ranulf hesitated, not sure what he should say. Had Beatrice’s troubles all begun when she was caught in that
