Authors: Ellen Jones
Maud was instantly alert. “The reckless fool! You are certain?”
“There’s no doubt. The King is threatening to send troops to recover his property.”
Horrified, she rose to her feet. “Holy Mother! Where is Geoffrey now?”
“Back in Anjou according to our reports, but he has left a garrison behind.”
“I must return to him at once.” She clapped her hands. “Pack my boxes,” she ordered the women. “We leave for Anjou tomorrow.”
“Do not count on leaving. The King talks of returning to England and taking you with him.”
“Taking me—he knows I’m with child! If I go to England, Geoffrey will indeed launch a full-scale war! Besides, the King would not likely survive the voyage.”
Robert nodded morosely. “True, but there’s no reasoning with our father at this moment. Led his blood cool. Wait a day or two, then broach returning to Anjou.”
“There is no need for you to return, Daughter,” the King complained two days later.
He lay in his chamber propped up by many cushions, surrounded by members of the court. Several physicians were in constant attendance; one endeavored to give him a vial of medicine, which he pushed angrily aside.
“It’s my duty to go,” Maud said. “I will be able to restrain Geoffrey from doing further damage.”
The King gave her a skeptical look. “I’ve not seen any evidence of your influence over him. My troops will be more effective. It’s also your duty to remain by my side. How can you be so cruel as to deprive me of my grandson?”
“My son’s father has rights as well, Sire. I beg you, do not force me to choose between you and my husband.”
“I won’t prevent you from returning to Anjou.” He gave a long sigh. “To be left alone, ill, nearing death, abandoned in my old age—” He sighed again.
Maud watched him unmoved. Privy to all his little ploys, she knew he might hang on for several years yet. However, she could not deny a guilty pang as she looked at his clammy skin and palsied limbs. It did seem cruel to leave him, to deprive him of his grandson. In truth, she would much prefer to remain in Normandy, where she felt closer to Stephen who, sooner or later, must return to Rouen.
On the other hand, the consequences of not returning to Geoffrey were frightening. Left to his own devices, the impetuous Count might continue to attack her father’s possessions and enrage the Norman barons to such a pitch that her future as Duchess of Normandy could be jeopardized. She must protect herself, as well as Henry’s inheritance. This was best accomplished by dealing directly with Geoffrey. Despite her father’s skepticism, she felt sure she could restrain him, even persuade him to return the castles he had taken. He knew she carried his child, and surely this would dispose him to listen to reason. A wave of anger coursed through her at the thought of her hotheaded husband, who had brought her to this impossible point where she must decide between her duties and responsibilities to him or to her father. Either way she would suffer the consequences of her decision.
“I can do more good in Anjou than here,” she said at last. “I leave in the morning—with your blessing, I hope.” She gave him a placating smile. “Remember, I’m with child. Geoffrey will expect me to bear it in Le Mans. Then you shall have two grandsons to comfort you.”
“I will never see the child you now carry.”
She signed herself. “I pray God that is not so.”
“You’ll regret your hasty departure,” the King said in a quavering voice. “You will not see me again in this life.”
The scene before her was like a tableau in a religious pageant she had once seen: her father propped up in his bed, surrounded by advisers, courtiers, and physicians all watching her, some with sympathy, others with ill-concealed satisfaction at this sign of estrangement between the King and his heir.
Although he did not cozen her for a moment, crafty old knave that he was, still Maud hesitated. She opened her mouth to explain again, then thought better of it. After all, what was there to say that had not already been said? Sick at heart, Maud left the chamber, the King’s words echoing in her ears like a premonition of doom: Would she ever again see her father alive?
O
N THE 28TH DAY
of November in the year 1135, Stephen returned to Normandy. After attending to his own affairs in Mortain, he rode to Rouen, arriving at the ducal palace late in the evening.
“How is my uncle?” Stephen asked Robert of Gloucester, who met him in the torch-lit courtyard.
“Still alive, by God’s grace, and sleeping peacefully at the moment,” Robert said, signing himself. “Fully recovered from a near brush with death not two months past.”
“We heard as much,” Stephen said. “Gorging himself on stewed lampreys. You’d think he’d have the sense to stay away from the dish, which has always acted as a violent poison in his system.”
“Indeed. This time he had to be bled and purged for several days. It was a near miss, let me tell you.”
Stephen signed himself. “Had I known it was so serious I would have come over immediately.”
“Fortunately he recovered and we thought it best not to alarm the kingdom for naught. In truth, since the birth of his second grandson last month he has been in much better spirits.”
“Which will improve still further when he sees his favorite nephew,” said Brian FitzCount with a smile, as he ran down the steps of the palace into the courtyard. “The King has planned a great hunt tomorrow, weather and health permitting, and a supper in the hunting lodge.” He threw his arms around Stephen. “It will be like old times, eh? By the Mass, I have missed you, my friend.” His face grew serious. “I was so sorry to hear of the death of your son, Baldwin. A terrible blow. But our latest news is that Matilda is with child again.”
“Yes, she is, thank the Lord. Baldwin’s demise was a heavy burden for her to bear.” Stephen paused, remembering the anguish of Baldwin’s fatal illness. “All is well with her now.” He picked up a saddlebag lying on the ground. “I’ve brought with me some writs from Roger of Salisbury for the King to sign.”
“They must wait until tomorrow,” Robert said.
As he followed Brian and Robert into the ducal palace, Stephen paused for a moment to look across the courtyard, his eyes coming to rest on the falcon mews where he had last seen Maud alone. Although he still sorely missed her, the initial agony of losing her had eased. But now, once again in the same surroundings, the memory of that fateful encounter brought back more sharply than ever the searing pain of his loss.
“The Countess of Anjou is fully recovered from the birth?” he asked Robert.
“It was a difficult time for Maud, much harder than her first confinement, but yes, both mother and babe now thrive.”
“Is the break between Maud and her father now mended?”
Brian exchanged a quick glance with Robert. “Not fully. Not yet.”
“Indeed?” Stephen looked from one to the other, his interest quickening.
“You recall the incident last May when Geoffrey of Anjou attacked the King’s castles?” Brian asked.
“Only too well. It’s still the talk of London.”
“I can imagine. Maud returned to Anjou to try to reason with her husband. Thanks to her intervention, Geoffrey agreed to give the castles back, but thus far he has made no move to do so. However, when Maud left Normandy the King was furious. He felt her place was with him, and has still not forgiven her.”
“Fortunately, Maud plans to come with both her children to Rouen in time for the New Year,” Robert added. “It will surprise the King and do much to heal the breach between them.”
“It’s late, and Stephen has had a long journey,” Brian said. “Let us retire now so we may be fresh for the hunt tomorrow.”
As he lay on his pallet, Stephen turned over in his mind the information he had heard concerning Maud and her father. It occurred to him that it would be greatly to his advantage should the King die while still estranged from Maud, but the death would have to take place between now and the New Year, four weeks away, for it to be of any use to him. Regretfully, he dismissed the thought and fell into a dreamless sleep.
Next day the weather brought clear skies and a pale sun. The hunting party left at noon, joined by the de Beaumont twins, who had ridden in from Muelan the day before. By late afternoon the hunters, having brought down two stags, several doe, and a brace of hare, dismounted at the King’s lodge on the edge of the forest. One of the stags was skinned, a haunch of venison skewered onto the spit over a roaring applewood fire, and soon the rich aroma of roasting game filled the air.
The evening was mild and King Henry decided to eat outside. Varlets spread a snowy cloth over the mossy forest floor, laid trenchers, and set out dishes of pike pie and stewed lampreys brought from the castle kitchens to accompany the platters of grilled rabbit and smoking slices of venison. The sun sank behind a purple line of hills in the west. The woods darkened to a deep blue-green; the evening air grew chill. Flagons of wine and mead passed round the fire again and again. Hounds snapped and growled; the laughter grew boisterous. King Henry’s favorite minstrel tuned his lute and began to sing a popular tavern song.
Across the fire, King Henry, well wrapped in a great black cloak lined with bearskin, sat by himself in the shadow of a great oak. Stephen noted how frail and ill his uncle looked, his skin stretched thinly over bone, a glazed look in his watery eyes. He could not repress a shudder at the thought that this was what lay in wait for him at the end. I would prefer to die in battle, Stephen reflected, rather than grow so old I am always ill and unable to do for myself. By God’s birth, the King would be better off dead than to continue in this miserable state.
Out of the corner of his eye, Stephen saw a servitor surreptitiously pick up a wooden bowl of stewed lampreys warming by the fire. With a quick look over his shoulder, the servitor made his way round the fire to where the King sat alone. Everyone’s attention was on the minstrel, Stephen noted, and the servitor’s action had not been observed. That greedy old man, Stephen thought. Really, the King ought to be ashamed of himself, knowing what effect the dish of lampreys had on his stomach. He rose to his feet and made his way round the fire to where the King sat. The servitor had vanished.
“Ah, Nephew,” The King said at his approach. “A most successful day. You knew I killed one of the stags myself?”
Stephen had seen the King aim at the stag, but knew it was Robert’s arrow which actually felled the beast.
“A mighty feat, Sire,” Stephen said. He pointed to the covered dish. “Is that stewed lampreys I smell?”
The King grunted. “And if it is? I know my physicians particularly forbid it, but what do they know?” He ran a greedy tongue over his bloodless lips, as he lifted off the wooden cover.
Stephen eased himself down beside his uncle. “Come, Sire, you will make yourself ill if you eat the dish. Let me remove temptation.”
He reached for the dish but the King stayed his hand.
“Am I master in my own house?”
Firelight rippled across Henry’s face like waves on a dark shore. With a deliberate gesture he dipped his fingers into the lampreys and put some into his mouth.
“Ambrosia,” he said, licking his fingers. “Those learned men of medicine told me I would be dead and buried well over five years ago. But here I am.”
It would be so easy to simply remove the dish, Stephen realized, hesitating. A conflict of emotions began to rage within him: affection and gratitude for the uncle who had showered him with honors and wealth warred with his resentment at being passed over for the crown. He finally reached out to grasp the dish.
“I have cheated death thus far,” the King said, chewing the eels with relish, and barring Stephen’s hand with a surprisingly strong arm. “Leave me be.”
Powerless now to stop him, Stephen watched in horrified fascination as the King plunged his hand again and again into the wooden bowl until it was scraped clean. He washed the last of the lampreys down with a tankard of wine, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“See?” he said with a loud belch. “No ill effects at all.”
Stephen gave him a weak smile. The matter was truly in God’s hands now, he thought, absolving himself of any wrongdoing. He waited anxiously by the King’s side but nothing happened. The eels were not going to affect him after all, Stephen thought, both relieved and disappointed.
After a time, Stephen saw Robert detach himself from the others and thread this way through the seated men.
“Would you like to retire now, Father?” Robert asked as he approached the King.
King Henry yawned. “Yes. The day’s outing has done me good. I should sleep well tonight.” A sudden spasm crossed his face.
A chill ran down Stephen’s spine. “What is it, Sire?”
“I—the—” The King’s mouth gaped like a hooked fish but no words came forth. His eyes rolled upward into his head, a white froth bubbled from his lips, and he fell backwards, clutching his bloated stomach.
His uncle had the look of death on his face, Stephen realized, surprised at how numb and frozen he suddenly felt. Then he saw the wooden bowl lying near the King’s body. Had Robert noticed it ?
“The King has been taken ill,” Robert cried, bending over his father’s prostrate form. “We must get him into the lodge at once.” Everyone ran to the King’s side. Robert beckoned to William of Warrenne, Earl of Surrey. “Ride at once to Rouen and bring the physicians back with you. Hurry.”
Stephen rose. Without quite knowing why, for he had done nothing to feel guilty about, he attempted to conceal the dish with his body before kicking it backwards into the woods.
Brian and the twins crowded round the King’s body and together they carried him into the hunting lodge. Robert and Stephen followed. The rest of the hunting party were made to wait outside.
“By the Mass,” Robert said, looking down at his father, “I don’t understand it. One moment he is fine and the next he is stricken. Stephen, did you see what happened?”
“No. As far as I could tell, it occurred exactly as you said.”
The King began to vomit uncontrollably, gasping for breath, while the distraught nobles hovered over him. As Rouen lay six leagues distant from the woods of Lyons-la-Forêt, it was dawn before the Earl of Surrey finally returned with the physicians. They examined the contents of the King’s stomach, then poked and prodded his distended belly. The King moaned and managed to rasp out a few choked words: