sunlit faith in what he’d just jokingly called a “happy ending.” Edgar could not imagine what it would be like to dwell in a world so free of shadows. But then his own world was one in which he was known-to all but Stephen-as Scarecrow.
“I’d best go,” he said, “ere I am missed. I’ll not see you on the morrow, my lord, for it is not my turn to guard you. But if I hear anything more about Earl Robert or the battle, I’ll find a way to get word to you.”
Stephen shoved his pillow behind his shoulders, knowing he’d never be able to get back to sleep. He had long, wakeful hours ahead, but they would be a gift, a private time alone in which to rejoice, to thank the Almighty, and to anticipate a reunion with his wife. “Edgar…think you that you might like to see London one day? If so, you need only seek out my steward, William Martel, and identify yourself. You’ll have a place in my household waiting for you as long as I am king. You have but to come and claim it.”
Edgar was mute, awed by the offer and all it encompassed. Reaching the door, he opened it cautiously, glanced back over his shoulder, grinned, and then was gone. The memory of that rapt, shining smile lingered, though, for it was the first time that Stephen had seen Edgar smile without bringing up his hand to shield his cleft lip.
From the castle solar, Matilda could catch a glimpse of Winchester’s streets. People were out and about, the city slowly getting back to normal. But the damage done by the siege was even more extensive than she had first feared. On this sun-warmed September morning, she found herself dreading the coming of winter, knowing what suffering it would bring to Winchester.
Turning from the window, she studied the men seated at the solar’s table. They were tense, expectant- except for Robert. He seemed quite calm; she suspected that he’d gotten a better night’s sleep than she had, and her anger flared without warning. If not for Robert, Maude’s claim would have flickered out by now, a candle quenched and cast aside. But anger was a luxury she could not afford, not yet. Instead she smiled; she was learning to use smiles as shields.
“I trust you’ve thought about our last conversation?” she queried, pointedly but still polite. Robert smiled, too, a noncommittal smile that was as meaningless as her own, saying nothing, and her brother-in-law stirred impatiently.
“What is there to think about? We’ve made you a remarkable offer, Robert. You need only renew your allegiance to Stephen and take your rightful place in the government-as his second-in-command. How could you even contemplate turning down an opportunity like that?”
Robert glanced from the bishop to Matilda, then over at Ypres. They’d promised to give him a vast amount of power. He wondered impersonally if they meant it, if it was bribe or hoax. “As you say, Cousin Henry, a ‘remarkable offer.’ But it is not one I can fairly judge under the present circumstances. Set me free and I shall give it the consideration it deserves.”
He saw their faces change as they absorbed his answer, saw their disappointment and anger and-from Ypres-a grim glimmer of amusement. “I will not betray my sister,” he said quietly. “You ought to have known that.”
Matilda’s eyes narrowed. “I will not apologize for trying to halt this needless, bloody war. I am sorry, Robert, that you cannot see the harm you are doing, sorrier than I can say. But so be it.”
“I think you made a fool’s choice,” the bishop said brusquely, “but you are the one who’ll have to live with it. So…let’s talk of a trade: your freedom for Stephen’s. That should be simple enough to arrange. There is a pen and inkwell on the table, and plenty of parchment. The sooner you write to your sister, the sooner you-”
“I cannot do that.”
They stared at him. “Why not?”
“I cannot agree to a trade on those terms. I am but an earl, whilst Stephen is a consecrated king. I would have an inflated sense of my own worth, indeed, were I to believe I was a king’s equal. If Stephen is to be freed, it is only fair that the men taken prisoner with me at Le Strete should be freed, too.”
There was an astonished silence, broken by Ypres. “Set them free, without ransoms? Never whilst I draw breath!”
He sounded so indignant that Robert knew at once he must have captured one or more highborn prisoners himself. “Those are the only terms that I can accept.”
“I hardly think you are in a position to dictate terms!” the bishop snapped. “I think it is time for some plain talking. You’ve been very well treated so far, Cousin, but that can change. We know that Maude clapped Stephen in irons. I daresay we can find some for you, too, if it comes to that.”
Robert remained impassive. “We all do what we must.”
Ypres leaned across the table. “You’d do well to remember that I am no friend to you, Fitz Roy. Moreover, I’ve always looked upon mercy as a character flaw.”
“Willem!” Matilda confined herself to that involuntary objection, not willing to reprimand Ypres in Robert’s presence. The bishop had no such scruples, and aimed a withering look in the Fleming’s direction.
“You are but wasting your breath and our time, Ypres. He knows full well that we’ll not be torturing him to break his will. Matilda would never abide it, nor would I. Let’s talk, instead, of confinement. Not the kind you’d enjoy, Cousin. And not in England, either, where you might find friends foolhardy enough to attempt a rescue. No…if you force us to it, we’ll send you to Matilda’s lands in Boulogne. I’d advise you to think on that prospect long and hard: a lifetime alone in the dark, with no hope of escape.”
Robert was not intimidated. But neither was he defiant. Sounding eminently reasonable, as if he were merely pointing out a hitherto overlooked fact, he said, “And whilst I was rotting away in a Boulognese dungeon, what do you think would be happening to Stephen?”
Amabel picked up a pen without enthusiasm. She’d been taught to read and write in her youth; lacking a son, her father had lavished unusual care upon the education of his daughters. Writing was a clerk’s task, though, and she’d had little practice at it. But this was not a letter she dared dictate to a scribe; she no longer trusted her own discretion.
To my daughter Maud, Countess of Chester, greetings:
I would that I had word for you of your father’s fate, but it has been three days now since I joined Maude at Gloucester, and we’ve heard nothing. I fear I shall go stark mad if we do not soon
Reconsidering, she scratched out that last sentence. Gripping the pen again, she wrote:
Miles Fitz Walter reached us yesterday, in a sorry state indeed-bruised and bleeding and hungry and dispirited, having made his way alone to Gloucester after his command shattered. And last night a message arrived from Gilbert Foliot, the abbot of the Benedictine monastery here. He was one of the churchmen with the Archbishop of Canterbury, and reports they were ill used, their horses stolen, their belongings rifled; those impious knaves even robbed the archbishop of a silver cross. But they were not harmed, and Abbot Gilbert vows to bring Minna back with him as soon as he can provide a safe escort-you remember Minna, that dour German woman of Maude’s? We still do not know, though, what befell Ranulf or the Scots king; pray God they were able to escape as Miles did.
Her pen hovered above the parchment as her attention wandered, and ink dripped down onto the letter. She could not seem to control her thoughts anymore; every road led her back to Robert and that wretched river crossing at Le Strete.
Your brothers Will and Philip are back at Bristol, keeping a close watch upon Stephen, but I brought Roger with me. He is so sure that Robert is alive and unhurt, but a priest would not be likely to lack faith, would he?
She got no further. Her head came up, the pen slipping from her fingers. Her maid had heard it, too. Casting aside her sewing, she said, “Something is amiss below-stairs.” But by then Amabel was already halfway to the door.
The great hall was lit by smoking torches and an open hearth fire. Coming from the dark of the stairwell, Amabel squinted at the sudden brightness. Maude and Rainald and Brien and Miles were clustered in a circle, utterly intent upon a new arrival. She could tell only that he was of middle height, for her view was blocked by those crowding around him, but her heart leapt in a sudden, desperate surge, a hope that plummeted as Rainald moved aside, revealing the man in their midst. She thought Ranulf looked ghastly, his face bloodless and haggard, dark eyes glazed and unfocused-until he glanced her way.
“You are a welcome sight-” she began as he strode toward her, but Ranulf cut her off, as if his safety were of no matter.
“Robert was taken prisoner at Le Strete,” he said. “But he was not harmed, Amabel, I swear he was not.”
