siege? Or had she always been one to shy at shadows, to see demons lurking in the dark? He knew she was a great heiress. But he knew, too, that Rainald’s women had invariably been bold and lusty wenches, bawdy, cheerful bedmates, never a bird with a broken wing.
He was still pondering his response when Rainald poked him in the ribs. “So…what is this I hear about your turning down Maude’s offer to find you an heiress of your own?”
Ranulf shrugged, for he could not tell anyone about Annora. Soon, God Willing, but not yet. “The truth? Well, my lord Earl of Cornwall,” he said, playfully drawling out Rainald’s new title, “I’ve my heart set upon a particular lady, Eleanor of Aquitaine. I hear she and the French king are mismatched, and should their marriage falter, I want to be able to put in my bid.”
Once more, Rainald’s elbow went into action, connecting with Ranulf’s ribs. “So keep your secrets, then, lad. I’d wager you’ve got a light o’ love hidden away somewhere,” Rainald said, showing unexpected insight. “But that is no obstacle to a profitable marriage. Not that you’ll need to marry for money, not once Maude-Damnation!” He broke off, giving Ranulf a rueful grin. “I let that cat out of the bag, for certes, me and my runaway mouth!”
“What?” Ranulf demanded. “What does Maude intend to do?”
“You cannot tell her I told you,” Rainald warned. “She has it in mind to bestow a title upon you, too- Mortain.”
“Mortain?” Ranulf echoed. “But…but Mortain is Stephen’s.”
“Not any more,” Rainald said, punctuating with his elbow again.
“Christ on the Cross, will you stop prodding me? I’m not a balky horse in need of the spurs! Are you sure about this, Rainald?” When his brother nodded, he exhaled slowly. Count of Mortain. He could not deny that he wanted it. Yet he wished that his gain need not come at Stephen’s expense. But Eustace still had the bulk of his inheritance intact, the county of Boulogne. When he said that aloud, though, Rainald shook his head.
“You truly think Maude will let Boulogne pass to Stephen’s son? I’d say the lad has a better chance of becoming Pope than Count of Boulogne!”
Ranulf was taken aback. “That is crazed talk, Rainald! It can be argued that Stephen has forfeited Mortain, but Boulogne is Matilda’s. Eustace is her lawful heir, and no court in the land would say otherwise.”
“Maude’s court is the only one that counts now, lad.”
“No…Maude would not do that, Rainald. To deprive Eustace of his rightful inheritance-it would be unjust!”
“You are such an innocent, Ranulf! Do you honestly believe that Maude cares tuppence about doing Stephen justice? She hates him, lad, as I hope no woman ever hates me. You think she detests Geoffrey? Their marriage is a love feast compared to the way she loathes Cousin Stephen!”
Ranulf was not convinced, and would have argued further, but by then they’d reached the castle solar. It was already crowded with men, most of the faces familiar to Ranulf. Robert, as always, by Maude’s side. Miles and Brien, also close at hand. Baldwin de Redvers, newly named by Maude as Earl of Devon. Oxford’s castellan, Robert d’Oilly, and his stepson, another of the old king’s illegitimate offspring.
But there were a few newcomers to their ranks, too. John Marshal, who held Marlborough Castle, although until recently, no one could be sure for whom; he’d managed an adroit balancing act for the past year, convincing both Stephen and Maude that he was on their side. William Beauchamp, formerly one of Waleran Beaumont’s most trusted captains. And Hugh Bigod, who was doing his best to pretend that no one remembered he’d perjured himself on Stephen’s behalf.
Ranulf squeezed in, finding a space against the far wall. He was expecting no surprises, for he knew why Maude had summoned them-to hear the eyewitness accounts of the Church Council held last week, called by Maude’s new ally the Bishop of Winchester to recognize her as England’s rightful queen. She was flanked by Nigel, Bishop of Ely, and Bernard, Bishop of the Welsh see of St David’s. But it was Gilbert Foliot who’d assumed the role of spokesman, and Ranulf edged over to get a closer look, for he was curious about Foliot, only thirty and already in a position of influence, abbot of the Benedictine abbey at Gloucester. Ranulf knew some begrudged Foliot his rapid rise in the Church hierarchy, attributing it to his kinship with Miles Fitz Walter; they were first cousins, once removed. But Foliot was said to have a quick wit, a nimble tongue, and a sardonic eye, all of which were in evidence now as he described for them the events of the Winchester synod.
Gilbert Foliot began with an unexpected admission, that in his youth he’d taken great pleasure in the acts of fair tumblers and ropewalkers. “But in all honesty, my fond memories of those spectacular somersaults and dazzling back flips cannot compete with the remarkable performance I just witnessed at Winchester. The bishop’s mental contortions were truly breathtaking!”
He had an adroit sense of timing, waited now for the laughter to subside. “But then, he had to justify not one, but two turnabouts. He was up to the task, though. First he explained why he had been compelled to break his oath to you, my lady. As he told it, England was in chaos, and you tarried so long in Normandy that he had no choice but to accept Stephen-for England’s sake. And indeed, three whole weeks did drag by between King Henry’s death and Stephen’s coronation.”
Foliot paused again for laughter, and was not disappointed. “The suspense is becoming too much, Cousin,” Miles said wryly. “How did he explain then, his abandonment of Stephen?”
“He said that whilst he loved his mortal brother, he loved far more his Immortal Father, and Stephen’s defeat at Lincoln was clearly God’s Judgment upon him, both as a man and a king. And so he urged his fellow clerics to follow his lead, which they did, and elected you, madame, as Lady of the English. After that, the bishop excommunicated Stephen’s supporters, with special thunderbolts aimed at Stephen’s steward, William Martel, who’d dared to seize the bishop’s castle at Sherborne.”
The word elect jarred with Maude; it was for the Church to consecrate a sovereign, not select one. But at least the bishop had kept faith with her, even if he did choose to pass himself off as a kingmaker. “The Archbishop of Canterbury balked at recognizing my right, claiming he could not break his oath to Stephen. He insisted upon being taken to Bristol, getting Stephen’s consent ere he would agree to accept me. What of the clerics at the synod? Did any of them echo the archbishop’s argument? Did any of them balk, too?”
“No, my lady,” Foliot said emphatically, if not altogether truthfully. A number of the clerics had not even attended the synod, but he did not want Maude to know that, for he already had enough troubling news to tell her. “It was not the clerics who cast a shadow over the proceedings, it was the queen.” Quickly amending that to “Stephen’s wife,” for he knew how sensitive Maude was on this particular point.
“Matilda? What could she do?”
“She sent her chaplain to the synod, a very brave priest named Christian. The bishop refused to read her letter aloud, so Christian boldly snatched it back and read it himself, much to the bishop’s indignation.” Memory of the bishop’s discomfiture brought a brief, involuntary smile to his lips. “It was an impassioned plea for Stephen’s freedom, stressing what the bishop would rather ignore, that he is his brother’s keeper.”
“Matilda poses no threat. But what of the Londoners? Did they obey the summons?”
“Yes, they did. But I regret to say that they were not cooperative, madame. They came to argue for Stephen’s release and restoration to the throne. And the bishop had little success in winning them over. They agreed to take his message back to the city, but they warned it was likely to fall on deaf ears. London, it seems, still holds fast for Stephen.”
There was silence after that, for they all knew they’d suffered a disturbing setback. Maude must be crowned at Westminster. But that could not happen until the Londoners came to their senses. Maude’s disappointment was so intense that she actually felt ill, chilled to the very marrow of her bones.
“I cannot comprehend such folly. At best, they can delay my coronation, not thwart it. What do they hope to gain by antagonizing me like this? I have the blood-right to be queen, the Almighty has judged my claim at Lincoln, and Stephen is my prisoner. What else need I do to convince them? What more do they want of me?”
Maude’s cry was heartfelt and found ready echoes. She heard murmurs of agreement and anger, rippling outward like waves across the crowded solar. There was one discordant note, though, a burst of laughter from the window seat occupied by John Marshal, Baldwin de Redvers, and her brother Rainald. They stopped as soon as she glanced their way, but the sound of their snickering lingered, unpleasantly so, in her memory.
Gilbert Foliot had nothing more to impart; they now knew the best and the worst of the Winchestser council. For a time, they discussed and damned the obstinacy of the Londoners, and Maude then revealed some good news from Normandy: on Easter Sunday, the Bishop of Lisieux had surrendered the city to Geoffrey. It was agreed that Miles should return to Gloucester, where he could keep watch upon the Marches, lest the Welsh seek to take
