then stood over him while he ate it. It still surprised her, that she could have become fond of a man so likely to burn in Hell’s hottest flames.
Casting aside a drumstick, Ypres reached for a napkin. “Can we forget about chicken now and talk instead of crowns? I have news, my lady, about your enemy the empress. My scouts were right; she did indeed head for Oxford. But she did not tarry there for long, and she and Brother Robert were soon riding west in all haste.”
Matilda stiffened. “Bristol?”
“No…Gloucester, most likely to confer urgently with Miles.” Ypres caught the echoes of alarm in her voice and gave her a level, faintly admonitory look. “That is not a fear you ought to dwell upon, madame. It serves for naught.”
“I know,” Matilda admitted. “I have no reason to think Maude capable of outright murder. And…even if desperation did drive her to it, I cannot believe that Robert would ever agree. But such comforting certitude comes more easily to me during the daylight hours. Alone at night, I begin to hear whispers in the dark…”
“I cannot swear to you, madame, that you have no cause for fear. Nor will I deny that you have put your husband in greater peril. But had you done nothing, he’d have no chance whatsoever of regaining his throne or his freedom. Remember what he was facing: a lifetime’s confinement with no hope of reprieve. With the stakes that high, I’d willingly gamble my life on the outcome, and from what I know of your husband, I suspect he would, too.”
Matilda smiled wanly. “You do find your own way, Willem. Anyone else would have reassured me that Stephen’s life is not truly at risk. You assure me, instead, that he’ll go to his grave bearing me no grudge.”
Ypres grinned; he was always encouraged whenever Matilda essayed a jest, however tentative or forced, for he’d initially feared that she lacked any humor whatsoever. She’d moved to the solar window, gazing out at the summer darkness. After a few moments of silence, she said, “I have news of my own. I had a clandestine visit from Stephen’s brother whilst you were gone.”
Ypres showed no surprise. But then, he was the most cynical soul she’d ever met, always expecting the worst of men and rarely disappointed. “The bishop is seeking to mend fences, is he? Let me see…he did not want to forsake Stephen, but he had no choice, for he had to put the good of Holy Church above all else, however deeply it pained him.”
“If I did not know better, I’d swear you were there, Willem, for that is exactly what he said. By the time he was done, he’d even managed to make his betrayal seem almost heroic.”
He’d rarely heard her sound so bitter. “It was easy enough to guess what he would say. But what of you, madame? What did you tell him?”
“I wanted to spurn his hypocrisy,” Matilda confessed, “to curse his treachery and revile him as Cain. Instead, I made myself smile. I let him clasp my hand and I lied, I said I understood. And then I told him the truth, that we need his help.”
“We do,” he said succinctly.
“I know. And to save Stephen, I’d have made a deal with the Devil himself.” Matilda paused. “In truth, I think I did.”
Word soon spread of Maude’s return to Oxford. She wasted no time, conferring with her uncle David, the Scots king, and then summoning the others to the castle solar. They were heartened to find Miles at her side, for he had the gift of the best battle commanders, that ability to banish doubts and exorcise the spectre of defeat by the sheer contagious force of his own self-assurance. His presence seemed to have bolstered Maude’s spirits, too; she looked tired and thin, but resolute. “We have made mistakes, most of them mine,” she said, surprising them by her candor. “Fortunately, mistakes can be made right, and that is why I have called you here.”
That had not been an easy admission for Maude to make, but she could not deny, even to herself, that she bore much of the blame for this sudden downturn in her fortunes. She still believed that her grievances were justified. She’d not been able to argue, though, with Miles’s blunt assessment of her plight: had she paid more heed to Robert’s cautious counsel, she’d have been spared the humiliation of being chased out of her own capital by those misbegotten, knavish Londoners. They, at least, would pay for their treachery. Geoffrey de Mandeville would see to that. And she told them then of her proposed pact with the Earl of Essex, one which would grant him the sheriffdoms and justiciarships of London, Middlesex, and Hertfordshire, would promise him the Bishop of London’s castle at Stortford, and agree to make no peace with the Londoners, his “mortal enemies,” without his consent.
That was not well received. There were murmurings, disapproving frowns, and Brien said skeptically, “Is it wise to give Mandeville so much power? When I think of men worthy of trust, he is not the first one to come to mind.”
“We do not trust him, either,” Maude conceded, and Miles stirred laughter by saying brusquely:
“I’d wager that even the man’s own mother did not trust him! But we do need him. We cannot allow the Londoners’ rebellion to go unpunished. The sooner we regain control of the city, the sooner we can get our lady crowned. Stephen’s kingship has been a stinking corpse for nigh on six months now. I say we bury it once and for all.”
That was the sort of tough, confident talk they needed to hear. But they needed answers, too, and John Marshal was not shy about seeking them. “That sounds well and good. But ere we go looking for shovels, what about the chief mourner at this funeral? What about the Bishop of Winchester? Geoffrey de Mandeville told me that one of his spies trailed the bishop to the queen’s castle at Guildford.”
Until now, Robert had taken no part in the discussion. There was a deliberation in his movements that bespoke exhaustion, and he was carrying all of his fifty-one years heavily these days. “We heard the same rumor,” he said. “We have decided, therefore, that I should seek out the bishop in Winchester, do what I can to soothe his wounded pride and assuage his anger. We can only hope it is not too late. But if he does mean to ally himself with Stephen’s queen, better we find out now. We need to know our enemies.”
“Speaking of enemies,” Miles prompted, glancing toward Maude and Robert, “ought we not to tell them about Stephen?”
Robert took up the challenge with obvious reluctance. “When we reached Gloucester, I sent to Bristol for my wife. She brought troubling news. On two different occasions, Stephen was found out in the bailey, each time after dark. Clearly we erred in taking him at his word. He cannot be trusted.”
Maude had been arguing that all along, and it was hard to resist a tart “I told you so.” Even a fortnight ago, she wouldn’t have. But how could she decry their poor judgment now…after the London calamity?
Stephen had none to defend him. The men still admired his battlefield bravery, but much of their sympathy had been left in the dust on the London-Oxford Road. Even Ranulf acknowledged the danger. Shifting uneasily in his seat, he asked, “What will you do?”
“We shall see to it,” Maude said coolly, “that he does not get a third chance to escape.”
Stephen’s jerked upright on the bed. The dream’s terrors were already fading; he no longer remembered what had set his heart to racing, caused the sweat to break out on his skin like this. So much, he thought, for sleeping during the day. But what else was there to do? Who would have guessed that a prisoner’s greatest foe would be sheer boredom?
Getting to his feet, he wandered restlessly about the chamber. Because he’d been lucky enough to have been born male and a king’s grandson, he’d passed his adult years doing as he pleased. He’d been spared Maude’s painful lessons in obedience-until now. The room was stifling. On a hot July day like this, he would have been out hunting. How many more months would he be caged here, tethered like one of his own falcons?
Finding himself at the table, Stephen picked up a book, soon set it down again. He knew there were those who read for fun, but that was a pleasure which still eluded him. The window was unshuttered; he could see men- at-arms crossing the bailey, a groom unsaddling a lathered gelding, several black-clad Benedictine monks. These months of enforced celibacy had given him a new respect for those men who willingly chose to deny the hungers of the flesh. Not even for the love of God could he have forsaken the love of women.
He sat down in a chair by the window and tilted it back at a precarious angle. Thoughts of Matilda were invariably bittersweet. This past week had been particularly difficult, for their sixteenth wedding anniversary was approaching. He refused to let himself believe, though, that he might never again make love to his wife. Without hope, he could not endure, nor keep faith with God.
