Authors: Ellen Jones
O
N A MILD DAY
in late December, Maud stood in the nursery chamber at Angers Castle looking down in dismay at her elder son. Lying on the floor, his fat little legs thrashing wildly, his dimpled fists pounding the dried rushes, Henry bellowed his rage. His nurse, Isabelle, a stout girl from Le Mans, stood over him, plump arms on hips, exasperation written over her face. Next to her, a stolid wet nurse suckled the two-month old baby, Geoffrey.
“Whatever is amiss with him?” Maud asked, kneeling beside the screaming child, whose eyes were screwed tightly shut in his chubby crimson face. She pushed back wisps of rust-colored hair from his damp forehead. “Henry, my poppet, what is it? Tell Maman.”
“There is nothing whatsoever amiss, Madam,” Henry’s nurse assured her. “Young Master Henry has already gorged himself on six honey cakes and I refused to let him have any more, fearing he would make himself sick. That’s what happened the last time, Madam—if you remember?”
“Yes, I remember,” Maud replied. Henry had now turned an alarming shade of purple, an uncomfortable reminder of her father in one of his rages.
“Let him have another,” she told the nurse with a weary sigh.
Isabelle’s face puckered into ridges of disapproval. “A mistake, Madam. Young Master cannot be allowed to think that he will get his own way by tantrums and willful behavior.”
“I daresay you’re right,” Maud said, helpless to deny Henry anything.
Magically the screams stopped as Henry sat up and wiped his nose and round cheeks on the sleeve of his green tunic. Still sniffling, he threw his arms around Maud before reaching for the platter of honey cakes. With a triumphant glare at Isabelle, he stuffed two into his mouth at once.
“Look, Madam.” Geoffrey’s wet nurse held out the baby for Maud’s inspection. “Master Geoffrey has gained nicely. He’s quite plump now.”
“Splendid,” Maud said, trying to muster an interest she did not feel as she gave the baby an absentminded pat on the head.
Little Geoffrey, whose alabaster skin, blue eyes, and red-gold curls proclaimed him a miniature version of his father, continued to suckle while Maud gazed tenderly at her young son. She wiped a dribble of honey from his chin, her heart melting with love and pride.
Already he behaved like a little tyrant, the bane of his nurse, as well as Aldyth, ruling the castle with his whims and rages, his pugnacious, stubborn will. Yet he had the gift of ruling hearts as well. His charm was irresistible—when he chose to exercise it. Young Henry had a precocious intelligence, his strength was that of a child of six, and his desire to learn insatiable. He asked so many questions that he had been given his first tutor a month ago.
“He is unusually clever, advanced for his age, I grant you that, but where do these violent rages come from?” Geoffrey had remarked more than once, looking at Henry with a puzzled frown. “Surely he must be a throwback to his ferocious forebears, those savage Northmen who harried the coast of Europe.”
Maud had been tempted to reply that the Angevins were considered a devil’s brood, their history peppered with violence, not to mention murder and treachery. She had refrained in the interests of maintaining the uneasy truce existing between Geoffrey and herself.
“Well, that’s hardly a heritage to be ashamed of,” she had contented herself with saying. “After all, Henry is a great-grandson of the Conqueror, quite an illustrious forebear, I should have thought.”
“And what of his illustrious Angevin forebear, now King of Jerusalem,” had been Geoffrey’s lightning response. Whenever she mentioned “the Conqueror,” Geoffrey countered with “King Fulk of Jerusalem.”
Maud shuddered at the thought of her husband’s reaction should he ever suspect that Henry could claim the Conqueror as great-grandfather on both sides. What a pity it must be kept secret, she thought regretfully, for no other heir in Europe could boast so mighty a lineage. As a child born of so deep a love, Maud had never doubted that her son—hers and Stephen’s—was destined for greatness.
The sound of horses galloping into the courtyard and the tone of excited voices caused Maud to walk over to the open casement window. Below she could see her half-brother, Robert of Gloucester, and Brian FitzCount talking to Geoffrey and his steward as their steaming mounts were led away by grooms. She saw Geoffrey say something to the steward, who bowed and disappeared from view.
It must be news of her father, Maud thought, assailed by a premonition of disaster. Dying? Perhaps death had already claimed him. Holy Mary, do not let him be dead, she prayed, not while we are still estranged. I could not bear it.
As she watched, the three men vanished into the keep. Squaring her shoulders, Maud left the nursery and descended the stairs. Inside the great hall the three men, joined now by the Bishop of Angers, had grouped themselves around the open hearth, warming themselves at the fire: Heart pounding, Maud offered her cheek to Robert, and her hand to Brian.
“What do you here?” she asked.
“Wife, there is disastrous news,” Geoffrey began, his face deathly pale and his eyes blazing. “You will not believe—”
Brian silenced him with a quick gesture.
“My father is dead,” she said, suddenly sure of it.
“More than a fortnight ago, from a surfeit of stewed lampreys,” Robert confirmed. His face, drawn and pinched, had aged ten years since she had seen him last. “His body now lies at Caen awaiting burial in England.”
Maud signed herself, blinking back tears. Impossible to believe that she would never see that dark, powerful figure again, inconceivable to imagine that iron will extinguished. The conflicts between them faded into nothingness; all she could remember was the time he had helped her return to Anjou, and, more important, when he had broken with precedent and defied popular opinion to make her his heir.
“If God had only called him a month later I would have been with him when he died,” Maud said. “I will never forgive myself for not having returned to Normandy earlier. That he should die while we were still estranged—” She choked on her words, remembering the fateful decision of last May, to return to Geoffrey and leave her father.
As she paced back and forth across the hall, there came a sudden realization that now she was Queen of England and Duchess of Normandy. Eventually she would allow herself the luxury of enjoying the excitement and challenge of her new status, but at this moment grief held sway.
Something Robert had said penetrated her thoughts. She stopped in front of her half-brother. “A fortnight? You say he died more than a fortnight ago? Why did no one send word? Had I known immediately, I could have been in Normandy by now.” She patted Robert’s arm. “Forgive me, Brother, I know you are burdened with much to do.” She turned to Geoffrey. “We had best leave at once so that I may accompany my father’s body to England. It was always his intention to be buried at Reading Abbey. After the funeral I hope to be crowned—” She stopped, suddenly aware of the tension emanating from the four men.
Something besides the King’s death weighed heavily on their hearts.
“Did my father say aught of me before he died?” she asked in some trepidation. Why did they look like that? What were they afraid to tell her?
“He was seized so suddenly there was no time for him to speak of anyone,” Robert replied quickly. Too quickly.
“I see.” Maud looked at his anguished face. “Tell me what troubles you,” she said gently. “Whatever it is, I have the strength to bear it.”
Robert and Brian looked helplessly at each other.
“For the love of God, tell her what that conniving thief has done,” Geoffrey burst out, his eyes glittering, his mouth working with anger.
“What conniving thief?” Maud’s heart skipped a beat; she braced herself for—she knew not what.
“I think it best you sit down, Madam,” the Bishop of Angers said.
Bewildered and apprehensive, Maud seated herself in a high-backed chair with carved wooden arms. Geoffrey called for wine.
“I’m listening,” she said, after the wine had come, holding the pewter goblet tightly in both hands.
Robert looked down at his booted feet. “Do you tell her, Brian, for I cannot bring myself to do so.”
“We had been hunting in the woods outside Rouen and were feasting on the fruits of our labor when the King was stricken,” Brian began. “When it became apparent he was at death’s door, Stephen volunteered to ride into the city to fetch the Archbishop of Rouen.” He took a deep breath. “Stephen didn’t return, but the King’s seneschal, Hugh Bigod, appeared and stayed until the King died later that night. In all the grief and confusion attendant upon the King’s death, none noted that Stephen was still absent, and that Hugh Bigod had also disappeared.”
Overcome with fear, Maud felt her heart freeze. “Do you tell me something has happened to Stephen as well?”
“Would that it had, may God forgive me,” Robert said, his voice uncharacteristically hard with bitterness. “As it turned out, before our father drew his last breath, Stephen had fled to Boulogne and taken ship for England, followed almost immediately by Hugh Bigod.”
Maud felt the blood drain from her face. “Knowing my father was close to death, Stephen sailed for England?” she whispered, her voice unsteady. “But why? Why?”
“To usurp the crown—why else?” Geoffrey shouted, his face contorted with fury. “That vicious wretch and his ambitious brother, lusting after power, have obviously planned this for months, perhaps years! Did I not warn you? Did I not beg King Henry to listen? I knew there was treachery in their hearts!”
The Bishop of Angers laid a restraining hand on Geoffrey’s shoulder. Beyond speech, Maud could not take in the sense of what she had just heard; an enormous weight pressed against her head. She signaled Brian to continue.
“As Geoffrey says, we must assume Stephen and Bishop Henry had all their plans in readiness. This was no impulse of the moment.” Brian paused. “We heard then that Stephen had arrived in London where he was selected king by popular demand. Thence to Winchester, where his brother had gathered together various nobles and churchmen. The keys of the treasury were turned over to Stephen and he was acclaimed king-elect by all present.”
Sudden tears glistened in Robert’s dark eyes. “Stephen was like a brother to me. That he should be capable of such treachery passes belief.”
“How can you know for certain?” Maud whispered through icy lips. “Could not this tale be false, a wicked rumor put about by our enemies?” Surely it was not true; Holy Mother, it could not be true! ‘That conniving thief has usurped the crown.’ The hateful words spun round and round in her mind like a caged animal seeking escape.
“Trusted men, still loyal to the late King’s wishes, sent us word of what happened,” Brian said in a gentle voice. “At last report the Archbishop of Canterbury himself had agreed to crown Stephen. It was then we left for Angers. We must now assume the coronation has already occurred. Neither Stephen nor Henry of Winchester would delay such an event.”
“This is why we dallied so long in Normandy,” Robert added. “We wanted to be certain of the facts before informing you.”
“How did these treacherous scum buy the consent of the Archbishop of Canterbury?” Geoffrey cried. “When men sworn to serve God make mock of their sacred oath to an anointed king, truly Armageddon has arrived!”
“I refuse to believe the Archbishop was a party to this infamy,” the Bishop of Angers cried, shock and horror written over his face. “William of Corbeil would never forswear his oath to the Countess of Anjou!”
“Initially, we heard, he refused to crown Stephen on just such grounds,” Robert agreed. “But that was before the arrival of Hugh Bigod who, by perjuring himself, persuaded the Archbishop to change his mind.” At Maud’s indrawn gasp, Robert nodded. “As God is my witness, it is true: That wretched knave swore a sacred oath that with his last breath the King had disinherited his daughter and named his nephew, Stephen, heir to England and Normandy.”
Her face ashen, Maud rose unsteadily to her feet, the goblet of wine falling unheeded to the rushes. “Was Hugh with my father? Could there be any truth in this?” Her hands clutched her throat; a great chasm yawned at her feet threatening to swallow her whole.
“Lies,” Robert cried. “All of it lies! Hugh was never alone with the King for a single moment. And even if he had been, the King was beyond speech. We were in the lodge with the King from the moment he was stricken until he died. Hugh only arrived at the end. Bigod has perjured himself for all eternity!”
“Why, then, did no one denounce him?” asked the Bishop of Angers.
“Who in Winchester could have disputed his statement? He and Stephen were the only ones who had been in Rouen,” Brian said.
The Bishop of Angers turned to Geoffrey. “I have heard enough, my lord. I leave at once for Rome. Unless Stephen has the Pope’s consent, he cannot be legally crowned. When I tell His Holiness the truth, he will see justice done.”
“By all means, Your Grace, leave for Rome,” said Geoffrey, his voice laced with venom. “But don’t be surprised to find that Bishop Henry’s minions have been there before you, bringing costly gifts and whispering the right word in a well-placed ear. I doubt not that Winchester and his creatures have been wooing the Holy Father for some time.” He paused, looking at Maud’s stricken face. “Do you all realize why it has been so easy for the traitors to accomplish their wicked goal? Magnates, commonfolk, churchmen, even the Papal Curia itself—everyone, from the very beginning, has resisted a female ruler.”
There was an appalled silence. Geoffrey walked over to Maud and took her hands in his. “I think we must face the bitter truth, Wife.” His eyes did not flinch as they gazed steadily into hers. “None would question Hugh Bigod’s statement—even had they known for certain he lied—because they didn’t want to. The Normans have always wanted Stephen to be king.”
Maud experienced a moment’s gratitude to Geoffrey for his unsparing look at the truth. “I believe you’re right,” she managed to say. “We have all been blind.”
“What is to be done? We must make plans, Wife.”