Authors: Ellen Jones
Maud’s rage slowly dissipated, turning to compassion and interest. Miraculously, he did understand. “I had not realized your mother was so like my father.”
“Were they not both children of the great William?” Stephen replied, with a bitter edge to his voice. “After all, how far does the apple fall from the tree?”
Maud darted a glance at Stephen’s face, which had suddenly become a frozen mask. She let the silence lengthen between them before speaking. “The Emperor always referred to our grandfather as that bastard, upstart Norman adventurer who would not have lasted a day against the Teutonic knights.”
After a moment she heard Stephen chuckle. “An upstart Norman adventurer, eh? By God, I would have liked that husband of yours. How you must miss him.”
“I do,” she whispered, noting that the frozen mask of his face had relaxed.
“Come, I didn’t mean to remind you of your loss.” He reached out and tilted her face upward. “Smile,” he commanded. “You have no idea how fair you are when you smile. Wondrously fair.”
Maud blushed and shook her head free. “After a difficult beginning in England you have done well for yourself, Cousin,” she said, anxious to change the subject. “Next to my half brother, Robert, I have heard that there is no more powerful lord in all the realm.”
Stephen gave her a boyish smile. “Perhaps, with God’s grace, to be more powerful still.”
“Indeed?” Intrigued, she waited, wondering what he meant. When still he did not speak she prodded him: “Tell me, Cousin. I would know of your impending good fortune.”
He took a deep breath. “In Germany you no doubt heard rumors that Queen Adelicia may be barren?”
“Yes, the Emperor mentioned that as a possibility. Do you believe it to be true?”
Stephen leaned over the stone siding and gazed down into the swirling waters below. “After three and one-half years of marriage with no offspring, what else can one think? The King, after all, has twenty bastards hanging about the court so he can hardly be at fault.”
“Of course, he’s no longer young,” Maud pointed out. “But in any case there is still plenty of time, my father doesn’t lie at death’s door.”
Stephen paused. “No. However, he’s no longer a well man, I can assure you, though I pray God grant him many more years.” He glanced around the deserted bridge. “The point I would make is that if there continues to be no legitimate son, what will happen to the succession when your father dies? If the Queen remains barren … there is talk that I am the most likely candidate. Of course, if you had been a boy the question would never have arisen—” He gave her a seductive smile. “But I’m most pleased you’re not.”
Maud then remembered the two emissaries who, five years earlier, had come to Rome with the news of her brother William’s death and that Stephen was the favorite to succeed the King. But her father had married again and she, like everyone else, had assumed another son would be forthcoming. She had wondered if her cousin was still a candidate and now she knew. Under the present circumstances, Stephen might well be the next King of England and Duke of Normandy.
He was regarding her expectantly and Maud gave him a tentative smile, determined not to let him see that she was disquieted by his news. Although why she should be she could not imagine. Perhaps it was only a deep regret that her father’s throne must pass to a nephew rather than a child of his own flesh and blood.
Setting aside her reservations, Maud gave him a mock curtsy. “So one day you may become my sovereign! I had better be on my best behavior. I’m glad for you, Cousin. Has the King spoken to you about his plans?”
A slight frown crossed Stephen’s face. “Not yet. I imagine he still hopes the Queen will produce a son. But the Bishop of Salisbury assures me, in confidence of course, that in time the King will tell me—and announce the fact to his court as well. After all, who else would he choose?”
“I’m aware of no one but yourself.” She sighed. “I only wish that my future was as well assured as yours.”
There was a moment of silence before he asked: “You have no idea why the King sent for you? He gave no hint in his messages?”
“None. A new marriage more than likely, what else would he want me for? I cannot bring myself to think about it.”
She felt the familiar surge of anger and frustration and her knuckles whitened as her fingers curled over the rail.
A hand grasped her shoulder and lingered there. “Perhaps the new husband will be to your taste,” Stephen said in a soft voice. “Young, stalwart, and a very model of chivalry. Try to look on the fair side.”
He did not remove his hand and the pressure of his fingers sent her heart fluttering like a captive dove.
“Let us not dwell on the future, either of us,” he went on, his eyes sparkling like emeralds. “In the next moment a bolt of lightning may strike us where we stand. We’re here now, and I intend to make your stay as pleasant as possible. You have a champion in me, always remember that.” His eyes met hers and a shower of sparks flew between them.
Stephen picked up the crown from the railing and handed it to Maud. In silence, they continued across the bridge. Had the sky become a deeper blue? Maud wondered. The sun a brighter hue of gold? Surely the heady scent of the apple trees, warm and sweet on the breeze, had not been there before? She felt vibrantly alive, buoyant, as if she could take wing at any moment. She had not felt like this for—actually she had never felt anything remotely like this. It was intoxicating yet unexpectedly frightening. She glanced at Stephen walking beside her, aware that a bond had been forged between them.
All too soon they reached the pavilion.
Aldyth was standing in the open doorway, a worried look on her face. “Where have you been, Lady? The litter came back quite some time ago.” She stopped in surprise when she saw Stephen.
“We walked from the bridge. Here is my cousin, Stephen of Blois, Count of Mortain. My foster mother, Aldyth.”
Stephen bowed, gave Aldyth a dazzling smile, and said something to her in Saxon.
Unmoved, Aldyth gave him a brief curtsy. Her eyes were wary; her head lifted like a hound scenting danger. She looked suspiciously from Stephen to Maud.
“Here.” Maud handed Aldyth the crown and, before she could protest, walked swiftly around the corner of the pavilion with Stephen.
“You know we leave for England tomorrow. Will you ride with me to the coast?” Stephen asked. “I can arrange for us to board ship together as well.”
“You’re most kind, but I’m not certain the King—that is to say, he may have made other plans for me,” Maud said.
“I will arrange it, Cousin, leave the matter in my hands.” Stephen laughed, a light, boyish sound filled with a kind of wild exhilaration. “I would be with you when you set eyes on your native land once again, for it was in England I first saw you.”
“Very well,” Maud said, her face flushed, her heart racing. It was impossible not to be caught up in Stephen’s infectious enthusiasm, his certainty that matters would go the way he intended.
They slowly walked around to the front of the tent, reluctant to part.
“Until tomorrow then,” Stephen said, grasping her hands. “I will come to your pavilion in time for morning Mass.”
“Until tomorrow,” Maud replied, pulling her hands free. She ran, flew, over the grass to the door of the pavilion.
Even after Aldyth had shut the door firmly behind her, Maud could feel Stephen’s presence outside. Within a few moments, she heard the sound of his retreating footsteps.
Later, lying in the feather bed, too excited to sleep, Maud realized that she had almost forgotten the humiliating incident with her father. Life seemed filled with promise once again. She even looked forward to returning to England now. Lifting cool fingers to her burning cheeks, she remembered the touch of Stephen’s large warm hands on hers. The realization that she would be with him over a period of several days was an unexpected boon.
Her eyelids had begun to close when she became aware of Aldyth standing over her. Maud opened her eyes.
“I was almost asleep,” she murmured. “What is it?”
“Something has been nagging at the back of my mind about that strutting coxcomb who thinks so well of himself,” she said, hands on hips. “Now I remember what it was.”
“You woke me for that?”
“Stephen of Blois is married to your cousin, Matilda of Boulogne,” Aldyth told her, with a smile of satisfaction. “Haven’t I always warned you? ‘Those who have honey in their mouths have stings in their tails.’”
Maud’s eyes opened wide and a bolt of disappointment shot through her. Sweet Marie, she had, indeed, totally forgotten.
T
HAT SAME EVENING, JUST
after vespers, Maud was again summoned to her father’s camp. Her thoughts were full of Stephen and his wife, Matilda of Boulogne, daughter of her mother’s sister, another cousin whom she had never met.
Maud wondered why her father wanted to see her so soon again. Her body tired and aching from the rigors of the journey across Europe, she prayed the meeting would be short and without incident.
A guard admitted her into the dark interior of the tent where her father sat before a small table, picking at the remains of a dish of stewed lampreys. A shaggy deerhound lay at his feet, head on its paws, mournful eyes fixed on its master. The King motioned Maud to sit opposite him on a small stool.
Warily, Maud obeyed, her senses primed for an unexpected attack. Looking up, she met the King’s hooded gaze.
“You resemble my mother, Queen Matilda,” he said suddenly. “The fairest maid in all Flanders when my father married her.” He reached across the table and touched a tendril of hair that had escaped Maud’s headdress to lay coiled against her cheek. “But your hair is exactly the color of my father’s.”
It was the very last thing Maud had expected him to say. Disconcerted, she flushed. “My grandmother—who never cried,” she said.
The King poured amber-colored liquid from a leather flagon into a wooden cup and handed it to her. “Just so. You remembered.”
Maud took the cup and drank, then almost choked at the bitter taste.
“Norman cider,” said the King, amused. “You will get used to it in time.” He rose to his feet and opened the tent door, letting in a cool night breeze. “Bring some candles,” he called to a page who hovered outside the pavilion.
“We’ve heard how well you acquitted yourself in the Empire,” the King continued, resuming his seat. “The Emperor kept me informed of your progress: your education, most unusual for a woman, the occasions upon which you represented him, the court cases over which you presided—all of it. He was very proud of you.”
Tears sprang to Maud’s eyes. The King watched her in silence. A page entered, carrying two lit candles set in iron holders which he placed on the small oak table. He then bowed himself out.
“Look here, Daughter,” the King said in a gruff voice. “I’m not unmindful of your loss. If there had been any other way I would not have uprooted you as suddenly as I did. But the situation grows desperate and I had to act.”
Maud swallowed the tears. “What situation? Why was I not consulted first? Why was I—”
He held up his hands to stop her outburst. “Enough. All in good time.” He poured some cider into a wooden cup and sipped it. “In your husband’s letters to me there were a few omissions that I found puzzling. For instance, why did he never mention the womanly arts? Surely these were not neglected?”
“Of course not. I can manage a castle, care for minor ailments, brew simples and herbal mixtures. I embroider, and know about the weaving of cloth—” She stopped as a smile crossed the King’s face.
“Ah, now that would have pleased your Flemish grandmother. Did you know the weavers of Flanders make the finest tapestries in the world?” He paused and a small frown appeared between his thick brows. “Your accomplishments are most impressive but you’ve left out the most important one of all: Why are there no children?” He shot the question at her so abruptly, she almost fell off the stool.
“Children?” she repeated, trying to collect her wits.
“Your education, the duties you performed, commendable to be sure, but the main purpose of a woman’s existence is the bearing of children. Why do you have none?” He leaned across the narrow table in a manner that was slightly threatening. “Did your husband not honor your bed?”
Maud turned scarlet. Shocked and embarrassed at the brutal frankness of the question, she had no intention of answering him. How dare he question her like some hapless serving maid. The subject of children had never been broached in her presence, except by Aldyth, her confessor, and a humiliating interrogation by the Emperor’s physician. It was certainly not a subject she would ever have dared discuss with the Emperor himself, who loftily ignored all matters of the flesh.
“Well? I’m waiting for an explanation.” The King’s eyes suddenly narrowed. “By God’s splendor, you did not refuse him your bed?”
Maud rose to her feet. “I never failed in my duty to my husband, Sire.”
“I should hope not, I should hope not. Well?”
“You’re not my confessor and have no right to ask me such … such immodest questions. I refuse to be insulted further.”
His black eyes flashed and he started to raise his arm, then swallowed, obviously trying to keep control. Maud, determined to maintain her dignity, turned and started to leave but the King followed her and grasped her arm.
“Perhaps I put the matter too harshly,” he said with an effort. “I have little gift for diplomacy and do not care to mince words. Trust me, the matter is of vital importance or I would not ask.” He led her back to the stool. “After all, I am your father. It’s safe to reveal the secrets of the bedchamber to me.”
Maud sank back down on the stool, and the King patted her hand, the first private gesture of affection he had shown her. Her resistance softened; she had long wanted to tell someone the truth. Before she had fully made up her mind the words were spoken.
“He … he honored my bed,” said Maud. “On occasion.”
“On occasion? How often?”
“Rarely,” she whispered.
“Rarely? But why? You’re young, beautifully formed—as far as one can tell.” He peered at her suspiciously, as though she might be hiding some gross deformity. “Were you unwell in your female parts?” A look of distaste crossed his face. “Your mother, God rest her soul, was frequently unwell.”