If this ordeal was indeed a test, if he must prove himself to the Almighty as a true Christian and a worthy king, he could not let himself despair. He could not doubt that he would eventually prevail.
Church bells were pealing in the distance. What was Matilda doing at this hour? Was she still in England or had she taken their children back to Boulogne? He knew she’d be loyal to her last breath. Nor did he doubt her courage or resourcefulness. He’d never believed that women were weak; his mother had effectively dispelled that male myth early in his childhood. But Matilda could not be his salvation, for she labored under the same burden as Maude. A woman could not act alone. She could not lead men into battle. Maude’s claim to the crown depended upon support from men. She’d never have been able to mount a serious challenge to his kingship if she’d not had Robert to fight her battles in England and Geoffrey to fight them in Normandy.
But Matilda had no Robert of Gloucester or Geoffrey of Anjou. The men she ought to have been able to turn to-his brothers-were unable or unwilling to come to her aid. Theobald was too far away to be of assistance, and Henry too treacherous. Nor could he expect men like the Beaumonts and the Fleming Ypres to rally to Matilda, men who’d so shamelessly abandoned him on the battlefield. No, he did not see how he could win-barring a miracle-and it seemed very presumptuous to expect the Almighty to intervene actively on his behalf. If the opportunity arose again, he’d risk an escape. But his best hope was that Maude would lose, that she’d blunder badly enough to confirm all those queasy suspicions about her queenship. Maude or a miracle-his was, Stephen acknowledged wryly, a most unlikely battle plan.
A shout floated up through the open window, and he tipped his chair back still farther, craning his neck to see. A rider was coming through the gatehouse-a courier from Maude? Of all the crosses he had to bear, his sense of isolation was surely the most onerous.
It was all the more frustrating for being a new burden. Up until a month ago, his guards had kept him apprised of the happenings beyond Bristol’s walls. Even his enemies had never denied his charm, and it had been easy enough for him to disarm his young gaolers with his affability and his humor. Only one guard had been immune to his friendly overtures, a burly freckled youth from Shropshire whose cousin had been one of the Shrewsbury garrison hanged at Stephen’s command. The hostile Godwin had still been a source of news, though. He’d been the first to tell Stephen that his brother the bishop had betrayed him, and when the Londoners capitulated, he’d come at once to gloat.
But without warning, it all changed; the well went dry. Now Stephen’s questions went unanswered, deflected with shrugs and silence. He was baffled by their sudden reticence. If Maude had been crowned-as surely she must by now-why were they so loath to tell him so?
Confinement had sharpened his senses, and he heard the muffled footsteps on the stairs long before a key turned in the lock. He was puzzled, for supper was still hours away, but pleased. To a man as gregarious as Stephen, solitude was a punishment in and of itself.
The first man into the chamber was a disappointment, though-Godwin, the embittered Shropshireman. The second guard was a stranger to Stephen, but he smiled at sight of the third, for he’d become fond of Edgar, a painfully shy youth whose stoop-shouldered height and harelip had earned him a cruel nickname from his fellow guards: “Scarecrow.”
Edgar did not return Stephen’s smile. He looked so ill at ease that Stephen glanced instinctively toward Godwin. When he did, he set his chair down with a thud, staring in disbelief at the dangling chains.
Godwin smiled grimly. “I’d begun to despair of this day ever coming, but it was worth the wait, by Corpus, it was. I daresay you think a king deserves shackles of silver. But you’ll just have to make do with the sort used on common folk like my poor cousin.”
Stephen shoved his chair back with enough force to overturn it. Although he’d not yet spoken, it was impossible to misread the defiance in his stance, and Edgar said hastily, “Please, my lord, do not resist. They’ll just summon more men to hold you down…”
Stephen had taken a backward step, his eyes flicking from the chains to the closest weapon at hand, a pewter candlestick. But Edgar had spoken the simple truth; this was not a confrontation he could hope to win. He slowly unclenched his fists, then stepped forward and held out his wrists for the manacles.
Stephen’s rage had sustained him until the guards withdrew. But as soon as he was alone, his shoulders slumped and he sank down in the window seat. The shackles were surprisingly heavy and had already begun to chafe his skin. He jerked the chain suddenly and futilely, wincing as the iron bit into his wrist. Like a hobbled horse. Better to have died on the field in Lincoln than this.
Edgar came back at dusk, alone and apologetic, carrying Stephen’s supper tray. Stephen was still sitting in the window seat. He ignored the food, seemed equally indifferent to Edgar, and the youth became flustered under his aloof, uninterested gaze. Even if Stephen’s friendliness was false, as Godwin claimed, it mattered to Edgar that this man, a crowned king, remembered his name, looked upon his harelip without flinching, and when caught out in the bailey, concocted a story to deflect suspicion from Edgar, who’d forgotten to lock his chamber.
“Look, my lord, I’ve brought you these,” he said nervously. “With your permission, I can wrap these rags around the irons. That will keep them from rubbing your wrists raw.”
Stephen met Edgar’s imploring eyes, and nodded curtly. Edgar knelt, began to fumble with the rags. “I am so sorry, my lord. It does not seem right to me, shackling you like this. I do not blame you for trying to escape, for any man would. But it gave them an excuse, you see. Mayhap once the empress is able to be crowned, she will relent-”
“What are you saying, Edgar? Maude has not been crowned yet? Why not?”
Edgar hesitated. “If I tell you, my lord, please do not let anyone know you heard it from me. The empress cannot be crowned, for the Londoners rebelled and chased her out of the city.”
“Christ Jesus! Have they forgotten what befell Lincoln?”
“They are safe enough from the empress’s wrath, at least for now. They have your lady wife to protect them, need not fear as long as she holds London.”
“Matilda holds London?” Stephen leaned forward, grasped Edgar’s arm. “Who is helping her? The Beaumonts? My brother? Name of God, lad, tell me!”
“It is the Fleming, my lord. No one knows how your lady won him over, but she-”
“Ypres? You are telling me the truth, Edgar? You swear it is so?”
Edgar nodded solemnly, and Stephen pulled away, leaning back in the window seat. Edgar waited a moment or so, before asking tentatively, “Do you not want me to fix your manacles, my lord?” Stephen merely shrugged, as if the chains no longer mattered, and then startled Edgar by laughing.
Edgar’s eyes were wide, for he could find no humor whatsoever in Stephen’s plight: a consecrated king shackled like a felon. “My lord?”
“For the past six months, Edgar, I’ve been telling myself that as much as I needed a miracle, it was foolish to expect one. But I’d forgotten,” Stephen said, beginning to laugh again, “that I had my own miracle all along. I married her!”
Brien Fitz Count was standing upon the battlements of Oxford Castle, watching as the day died away. The sun was haloed in brightness, deepening from molten gold to a fiery copper-red, and seemed to have set the river on fire. Gazing down at that shimmering, sunset-tinted current, Brien found himself thinking of past battles, remembering rivers that had run red with the blood of the wounded and the slain.
He was so caught up in his own thoughts that he did not at once hear his name being called. By the time he did, Maude was coming up the battlement wall-walk toward him. “I’ve been searching all over for you,” she said. “I’m glad I finally thought to look up!”
He made room for her at the embrasure and together they watched as the sun disappeared beyond the distant hills. “Did you arrange matters with Geoffrey de Mandeville’s vassal?” he asked, and Maude nodded.
“Yes, a man named Hugh d’Ing. Mandeville is sending him to Normandy to obtain Geoffrey’s approval of our pact, and then on into Anjou to get my son’s consent. Henry will enjoy that,” Maude said with a smile, “for this will be his first official act as heir to the throne.”
By now the vivid sky was past its peak, the colors beginning to fade. Brien turned away from the embrasure, focusing all of his attention upon Maude. “Did you say you were looking for me, my lady?”
“Yes…I wanted to talk to you about an earldom.”
Brien smiled. “In all the years I’ve known Miles, I’ve never seen him so joyful. Is all ready for the ceremony?”
“Yes…on the morrow I will confer upon Miles the earldom of Hereford. It is no more than he deserves, for he
