“Maude, I know they have been slow to submit to you, but they will in time. You must have patience-”
“Robert, I have been patient for more than five years. And where has it gotten me? When my Norman barons learned of Stephen’s defeat at Lincoln, did they rush to acclaim my victory? You know better-they offered my crown to Stephen’s brother Theobald! And what did he do? He tried to strike a deal with Geoffrey. If Geoffrey’d accept Theobald’s claim to Tours and agree to set Stephen free, Theobald would then recognize him as Duke of Normandy and King of England-Geoffrey, not me!”
“But Maude, Geoffrey did turn Theobald down!”
“For the love of God, Rainald! Are you so blind that you cannot see? How do you think that makes me feel? How many times do they get to spit in my face? Stephen was crowned within three weeks of my father’s death. More than four months have passed since our victory at Lincoln, and I am still waiting for my coronation. That is four more months away from my sons…or did you never think of that? Henry is old enough to make the journey, even if the younger lads are not. I wanted him to be here for my coronation, to watch the archbishop set upon my head the crown that will one day be his. But the Londoners have denied me that. And yet you wonder, Robert, why I love them not? Just put that question to my eight-year-old son if you truly need an answer!”
“Maude, I do understand,” Robert said. “I do not begrudge you a moment of your anger. I am simply saying that you cannot always act upon that anger. You’ve proven that you have the courage and perseverance and will to rule England. Now you must show the English that you have the discipline, too.”
Maude said nothing, but her silence was a concession of sorts, and they took heart from it. She’d made mistakes-too many, in truth-but she’d learn from them. Encouraged, Robert crossed the chamber and kissed his sister’s hand with deliberate formality, subject to sovereign. Ranulf came over, too, only his was a brotherly kiss upon her cheek. “You’ll see,” he said. “It will get easier once you are crowned.”
Maude gave him a weary smile. “I hope so, Ranulf,” she said, “for there has been precious little joy in this queenship so far.”
Emerging from his tent, the Earl of Northampton stood motionless for a few moments, gazing upon Matilda’s encampment. Newly hired mercenaries mingled with Matilda’s vassals, William de Ypres’s Flemings, and the earl’s own men. Not quite a month had passed since he’d offered his services to Stephen’s queen. He’d have come much sooner had he not dreaded facing her. Cynics might assume that he was motivated by the arrival at Maude’s court of his stepfather and hated rival, the Scots king. But it was more complex than that, for he’d been deeply shamed by his flight at Lincoln. He was a proud man, one who’d been held up to public ridicule, and his disgrace was a gnawing cancer in his vitals. He owed Stephen a debt of honour, and he was here in the lush Kent countryside in an attempt-however ill advised-to repay it.
Matilda had made it easy for him; her need was too great to indulge in the luxury of reproaches or recriminations. But if his welcome was warmer than he deserved, the position he was expecting to fill-Matilda’s mainstay-was already occupied.
The earl found it baffling that William de Ypres had not offered his sword to the highest bidder. He was equally astonished to see how high the Fleming had risen in Matilda’s estimation. They made the oddest pair imaginable. There was no question, though, of her trust, and he had to admit that Ypres seemed to accord Matilda what he’d rarely shown other women-respect. But if Matilda had faith in the Fleming, Northampton did not, and he was determined to watch over Stephen’s queen, whether she wanted such protection or not.
Stopping a soldier, he asked about Matilda’s whereabouts, and it was no surprise to be told that “She is conferring with the Fleming, my lord.”
Matilda and Ypres were walking together not far from her tent, heads down, so intent upon their discussion that they did not at once notice the earl’s approach. When they did, Matilda greeted him gravely, looking so pale and tired that he felt a prickle of unease. “Have you heard anything, madame? No word about the king?” For that was his secret fear; he marveled sometimes that there had been no regretful announcement from Bristol Castle, breaking the sorrowful news that Stephen had been stricken by a mysterious mortal ailment.
“No…no word. I’ve had just the one letter from Stephen, nothing since then.” Matilda looked toward the Fleming, back to Northampton. “Willem thinks the time has come.”
The intimacy of the Flemish “Willem” vexed him, but the earl did not hesitate. “I think that he is right, my lady. You’ve sought to reason with the woman. You promised her that Stephen would abdicate, and pledged castles and hostages as surety. What more could you offer?”
“She did not believe me,” Matilda said sadly. “And mayhap she was right, for I could not be sure Stephen would have agreed.”
“Nonetheless, you did try to avoid bloodshed, my lady. Not only did she spurn your plea, she would deny your son his just inheritance. Ypres is right, and surely you know that. So why do you hesitate?”
Soldiers had begun to move closer, straining to hear. Some of them glanced away shyly as their eyes met Matilda’s; others grinned and doffed their hats. Neither Ypres nor Northampton would understand her reluctance. Even if she’d tried to tell them, they’d not comprehend, for they knew war and accepted its consequences and its casualties. It was not that easy for her. It was a sobering realization, that men would die because of her decision, and her husband might well be one of them. She fumbled at her throat for the reassuring feel of her crucifix. Thy Will be done. But how did she know if it was God’s Will…or her own?
“So be it,” she said. “I agree, Willem. Tomorrow…at first light.”
Gervase de Cornhill was one of London’s wealthiest merchants, as his Bishopsgate Street house unblushingly proclaimed. It was newly built and of stone, which made it a rarity in a city of wood and timber, constructed after the fashion of a lord’s manor, with a spacious great hall, a private solar, even a privy chamber instead of the usual outdoor latrine. When the men began to arrive, they were welcomed by a young maidservant and offered not ale but wine, the beverage of the gentry. If some of them thought that Gervase was getting above himself, others were impressed by his affluence, and all hoped that good might come out of this urgent evening conclave.
Rohese was not supposed to be in the hall, but she was too curious to keep above-stairs. She was afraid that she might be sent home if London’s troubles were as bad as her cousin Gervase feared, and she did not want to go; life was infinitely more interesting since she’d been chosen to attend Gervase’s wife, Agnes. She’d not been sure at first just what “attending” meant, but it turned out to be easy enough: assisting with Agnes’s grooming, taking care of her clothes, accompanying her in public, and keeping her company in private, just as young women of good birth did for the queen and ladies of rank. No, Rohese definitely did not want to lose so agreeable a sinecure, and so she lingered in the shadows, intent upon eavesdropping, for her future and London’s had become one and the same.
“If Gervase sees you, he’ll send you above-stairs straightaway,” Agnes warned, but she was an indulgent mistress, and instead of banishing Rohese to the bedchamber, she soon found herself answering the girl’s eager queries about their influential guests. It was indeed a gathering of distinction, she said proudly. There were several former sheriffs, some past and present aldermen, a magistrate, John Fitz Ranulf, and three members of the powerful Buccuinte family.
“Oh!” Rohese was staring at two newcomers to the hall. “By the saints,” she hissed, “who is he?”
“That is Osborn Huitdeniers, no friend to Gervase, but too important not to include. He is a justiciar like Gervase and-”
“No, not the balding, stout one! The other, the young one!”
Agnes laughed. “Oh, you mean Thomas! He is a kinsman of Osborn’s, and his new clerk. He was studying in Paris, but came home last year when his mother died, and his father then got him this position with Osborn. That is his father over there, Gilbert Becket, one of the former sheriffs I mentioned. He was quite prosperous once, but lost most of his property in the great fire a few years back and never recovered…”
But Rohese was no longer listening, for she had no interest whatsoever in the sire, only in the son. Snatching a platter from the maidservant, she swayed gracefuly across the hall. Up close, she found Thomas Becket even more attractive, tall and elegant, with fair skin and gleaming dark hair. Favoring him with her most seductive smile, she offered him wine, but to her disappointment, he politely declined. She was not so easily discouraged, though, was mustering her forces for a counterattack when Gervase happened to glance her way, and that was that for her flirtation with Master Thomas Becket.
“I thank you all for coming,” Gervase said, striding to the center of the hall, “and I’ll waste no time getting to the heart of the matter. I fear for our city under that spiteful woman’s reign. London will be no more than a royal
