Authors: Ellen Jones
Astonishment turned to joy. The blood began to course through her veins as life returned to her aching body. Weakly she lifted her arms to hug him back. Her tears mingled with his. The ordeal of the siege, the harrowing journey through ice and snow, all of it was as nothing now as she held her son in her arms.
“D
ID YOU SEE THAT, MAMAN?
” called Henry of Anjou. “I have hit the mark every time!”
“Yes, my son, a wondrous achievement,” Maud called back.
“Well done, Nephew,” Robert of Gloucester shouted.
Henry acknowledged these compliments with an airy wave of his hand.
Maud and Robert, exchanging a look of mingled pride and amusement, stood in the grounds of Bristol Castle on a chilly October morning in the year 1145, watching the young heir of Anjou practice archery at the butts.
Almost three years had passed since Maud’s escape from Oxford Castle and during that time Henry had grown into a muscular youth with lively gray eyes and chestnut hair. Exuding raw energy and a winning charm, he was driven to excel at all that he undertook; at twelve he was already expert at the quintain, hunting, falconry, and his lessons, which included a smattering of languages from France to the Holy Land.
“I have arranged for Henry’s return to Normandy by the end of the week,” Robert told Maud, his face growing solemn. “He will ride under cover of night to Wareham where a ship will be ready to take him across the channel.”
Maud frowned. “With a large escort, I assume. Should Stephen’s forces get word of his leaving—”
“If there’s a large escort it may excite suspicion,” Robert interjected. “Trust me to take the necessary precautions.”
Maud pressed his hand. “I do, Brother. The constant threat of danger has made me fearful as a skittish filly.” She turned her head to cast a loving look at her son. “In truth, I cannot bear to part with him.”
Between Maud and her son existed an unbreakable bond, a depth of love and understanding she had never shared with anyone. Every now and then she occasionally caught a glimpse of Stephen in him: a sudden movement, lithe and fluid, a tilt of the head, and a trick of smiling at her in an intimate manner that made her heart stand still and her body grow weak. Once he had grabbed her around the waist and hugged her, as Stephen might have done, and she had almost burst into tears. The prospect of losing him was devastating.
Robert took her arm as they strode up and down the grounds. “Nor can any of us, for he has won all our hearts. But England has become too hazardous for the boy. I promised Geoffrey that when I could no longer guarantee Henry’s safety I would send him home. That time has come.”
With a sigh Maud sank down onto a stone bench, Robert beside her, and, turning her face up to the weak rays of the autumn sun, reflected on the sequence of events that had prompted Robert’s decision to send Henry back to Normandy.
In addition to the sieges, countersieges, rebellions, desertions, and assaults that had become a way of life in England, the last three years had also brought Maud a succession of stunning disasters that had not only hurt her cause, but given her much personal anguish as well. The cycle had started with the death of Aldyth in Anjou. Maud had not seen her for six years but never ceased to miss her. Mother, companion, trusted confidante, no one could take her place in Maud’s heart.
Aldyth’s death was followed by the inexplicable demise of Miles of Gloucester in a bizarre hunting accident, the Earl of Chester’s sudden defection once again to Stephen’s side, and, most recently, Robert’s unexpected defeat at the castle of Faringdon two months ago, where Stephen had won an overwhelming victory.
Since then her half-brother had sunk into a kind of morose apathy, for in the thick of the battle he had glimpsed his son Phillip fighting savagely against his father’s forces. It had broken his heart.
Now, ailing in body, his revenues sorely strained, Robert was forced to husband his resources. He had neither the money nor the men to garrison all his castles against the possibility of attack.
“Truly I sometimes feel as if fate has turned against us,” Maud murmured aloud. “As my cause grows weaker, Stephen’s fortunes prosper. Yet he is the usurper, not I. Is he never to have his just desserts?”
IT WAS THE WIND
that swerved the arrow, sire,” Prince Eustace whined. “Didn’t you see it?”
“No, I did not,” Stephen replied. He glanced up at the gray November sky, then down at the ground where not even a light breeze stirred the dried grass or scattered the piles of red and gold leaves. “In fact, my boy, there is no wind.”
“The arrow was not fletched true then.” Eustace looked wildly around the grounds of Westminster Castle. “I’ll have the fletcher whipped.”
“Begging your pardon, Sire, and not to contradict young Prince Eustace, but there be nothing wrong with the arrow,” the sergeant-at-arms said to Stephen in a low voice. “The boy just missed the mark.”
“I know, I know.” Stephen sighed in vexation. “I will deal with it.”
He looked despairingly at the petulantly handsome face of his eldest son now arguing with one of his squires. Tall for ten years, slender as a sapling, Eustace had his mother’s pink and white complexion, silver-gilt hair, and pale blue eyes. But his nature was vastly different from Matilda’s. He was an obnoxious, sulky boy, difficult to control, with a vicious streak that made Stephen uneasy, reminding him of his late cousin, Maud’s twin brother, William, who had exhibited many of the same qualities. Exceptionally strong, courageous to the point of being foolhardy, and excelling at arms and the hunt, Eustace promised to be as great a warrior as himself. On the other hand, despite being possessed of a cunning animal intelligence, he was inordinately dull at his lessons, an unforgivable lack in Stephen’s eyes.
Unpredictable and dangerous, interested only in activities that involved killing of some kind, Stephen was aware that his son lacked charm, warmth, even common humanity. Those who did not fear him, detested him.
A scream of pain rang through the air. Eustace had knocked his squire down on the ground and now proceeded to jump on him with booted feet. From the far corner of the courtyard, Stephen could see Matilda and his brother, Bishop Henry, turn startled heads in the direction of the screams.
“Eustace,” he bellowed, “stop that at once!”
Eustace ignored his father’s command and was finally pulled off the squire by two guards. He ran over to Stephen with a smirk of satisfaction on his face. The squire, blood spurting from his nose, was carried out of the courtyard.
“Giles moved the butt just as I drew back to take aim,” he said, a yew bow slung over one shoulder and a quiver of arrows over the other.
Stephen regarded his son with an icy glare. “Giles isn’t strong enough to move the butt; the fletcher’s arrow was true, and there was no wind. Why do you persist in this folly? Where is the shame in a shot gone astray?”
Eustace thrust out his lower lip as he returned Stephen’s look with a mutinous expression.
“You simply missed the mark, Eustace, and no one is to blame but you. Behave like a man. Admit it.”
Eustace folded his mouth into a stubborn line. He looked down at the ground and rubbed his foot in the grass.
“Admit it, I say,” Stephen repeated between clenched teeth. Overcome by a surge of anger, he grabbed the boy by his short brown jerkin, half lifting him off the ground. “Admit it, or by God and all His Saints I’ll whip you so hard you won’t be able to sit for a week!”
His face ashen, Eustace squirmed in his father’s grasp. “I missed the mark,” he began sullenly, “because—”
“Because you aren’t yet expert enough. There’s no other reason.”
Eustace’s face turned deep red. He gave a tiny nod.
“Now go to your lessons.” Stephen let him drop to the ground.
“But I want to—”
“I care not what you want—go to your tutor,” Stephen shouted, abandoning all attempt at control. “Learn something for a change. Do you want to be a crowned ass?”
Eustace threw his bow and quiver down on the ground, flashed Stephen a look of murderous hostility, then ran off toward the palace.
“What a look! No matter, that attempt at discipline was sorely needed and long overdue, Brother,” commented the Bishop of Winchester who, unnoticed by Stephen, had come up silently behind him. “Tell me, would you really have whipped him?”
“No, God forgive me, probably not.” Stephen sighed. “I’m incapable of hurting my children, even for their own benefit. But I would have ordered someone else to punish him.”
“Eustace is spoiled and indulged. He needs a stern hand. Do you remember how our mother ruled us all with a rod of iron?”
“Only too well,” Stephen replied shortly.
“In my opinion it’s the best way to raise a son. What says Holy Writ ? ‘If you beat your son with the rod, you will save his life from hell.’” Henry picked up Eustace’s bow that lay in the grass, tested it in his arms, then bent to select an arrow from the quiver Eustace had dropped. “Touching upon the matter of sons, I’ve just had confirmed that young Henry of Anjou sailed for Normandy in great secrecy.” He frowned. “Pity. If I’d had wind of these plans we might have intercepted him on the way to the coast. That would have been a prize worth taking. Almost as good as having the mother.”
“Indeed. I would give half my kingdom to have the boy in our hands,” Stephen replied. “He poses a serious threat to Eustace’s accession to the throne and the duchy.”
“In Normandy young Henry is a threat, certainly, for the Count of Anjou is sure to turn over the duchy to him when the boy comes of age,” Henry said.
“Louis of France will never honor him as Duke of Normandy,” Stephen argued, a quiver of resentment shooting through him. “Louis has promised me he will only recognize Eustace as the future duke. After all, his sister will be Eustace’s wife.”
Henry raised his brows. “Louis’s promises are not worth that.” He snapped his fingers. “Tell me, how will Eustace become Duke while Geoffrey of Anjou controls Normandy?”
Stephen did not reply. Any mention of Henry of Anjou or his father, Geoffrey, filled him with hatred. The Count of Anjou’s sweeping conquest of the duchy never ceased to enrage Stephen, who continued to lose supporters willing to forfeit their lands in England in order to keep those in Normandy.
“I didn’t recognize at the time how farsighted was our uncle when he forced his daughter to marry the Angevin,” Henry reflected. “Normandy and Anjou now form a bulwark so powerful that not even Louis of France dare attack their combined might. It is unlikely that Eustace will ever be Duke of Normandy, make up your mind to it. Best we concentrate on England.”
The Bishop notched the arrow to the bow and took aim. An instant later the point quivered in the mark.
“You haven’t lost your touch, I see,” Stephen remarked. “I could use you on my next campaign.”
Henry looked pleased. “With God’s grace, there may not be many more campaigns.”
“If only that were true.”
“My spies tell me Robert is far from well. His defeat at Faringdon was a heavy blow, as was Miles’s death, and Phillip’s and Chester’s defection. I doubt he can muster sufficient resources to do full-scale battle with you. In truth, I would be surprised if he lasts the year. With Robert’s death, it should be an easy matter to capture the elusive Countess of Anjou.”
Stephen took the bow from his brother, and tested it. He prayed God his brother was right. He no longer had any stomach for the endless fighting that led nowhere, never knowing from day to day when a trusted friend had become an enemy. No matter how many battles he won, he was no nearer to winning the war. His realm continued to seethe with strife and conflict.
Weary and disillusioned, Stephen knew that all he really lived for now was to see the war ended, peace restored, and the succession of Eustace secured. If a son of Blois sat on England’s throne, at least some good would have emerged from the wreckage that had become England.
There was only one sure way to forestall Henry of Anjou from becoming a real threat to Eustace in England, and to achieve this end, Stephen had decided upon an unprecedented gesture: He intended to have his son crowned in his own lifetime. Thus far he had mentioned the plan to no one, but this seemed like the appropriate time to confide in his brother.
Stephen took his brother’s arm and led him well out of earshot of the guards. “Henry, I want to tell you something. When I visited the monastery at Peterborough last month I went into the scriptorium where I was shown the chronicles the monks have been keeping for the past three hundred years. ‘The land is in such a state of misery under King Stephen,’ the monks wrote, ‘that it is as though Christ and all His Saints slept.’”
Henry looked quickly away. So he had seen that damning entry, Stephen realized. “I told the Abbot it was a harsh judgment, and he replied, looking me straight in the eye, ‘As you do, my son, so shall we write of you.’ I was too ashamed to argue with him. I left much chastened.”
“Well, you know what these unworldly monks are—” Henry began.
“No Henry, do not make less of them,” Stephen stopped him. “Before God, did I usurp the throne to leave such a black legacy behind me? A reign of infamy and lawlessness?” He sighed deeply. “I cannot count on Robert’s timely death, taking Maud captive or young Henry prisoner. No, I must make plans for the future; I must ensure the succession so that this chaos does not perpetuate itself after my death.”
They began to stroll slowly toward the palace. A light wind had sprung up, scattering copper-colored leaves about their feet.
The Bishop said nothing for a moment. “What do you suggest?”
“I want Eustace crowned in my lifetime.”
His brother sharply drew in his breath as he came to an abrupt halt. “In your lifetime? Are you mad?”
“Why not? It’s a common enough practice in Europe.”
“Yes, but not in Normandy or England. Not even the Saxon kings attempted it.” Henry shook his head. “Far safer to wait until Maud’s forces are defeated and the throne is secure. The war can only have one outcome: We will be victorious. Then Eustace will inherit as a matter of course.”