Fires of Winter (42 page)

At first the king was jubilant, his optimistic nature leading him to believe that his troubles had been solved, but Melusine told me, when the army returned from taking the six keeps that had been held by the bishops, that the queen was sick with worry. A number of the great ladies who served Maud had expressed their horror of the king's action, among them King Henry's widow, Lady Adelicia, who was now married to William d'Aubigny. Worse yet, Henry of Winchester had come to her and begged her with tears to convince Stephen to restore the keeps and the large sums of money in them to the bishops. He would be forced, he told her, to call Stephen to account if he did not, and it would break his heart to need to admonish his brother. The queen had responded that the bishop of Winchester had no right to admonish the king of the realm, and Winchester had riposted that a legate of the pope had the right to admonish anyone who offended the Church.

I was at first stunned to hear that Winchester had procured legatine power. There might have been time if he sent to the pope after Theobald had been made archbishop, but considering the snail's pace at which the curia worked—and their habit of delaying to see if larger bribes could be extorted—I doubted it. And then I recalled how Winchester had thanked Melusine for her “warning” just before we had started north, and I realized that he must have begun his negotiations to be made legate at that time. If the plea had been presented then and the details worked out, the legate who had confirmed Theobald as archbishop could have carried back Winchester's request.

I could see why Maud was worried. Kings had defied the Church before over questions of secular power, and Stephen had not demanded any change in administration or tax from the bishops' sees. Nonetheless, it was always bad to be at odds with the Church. There was something that worried me far more, however, and that was the rage generated in the sheriffs, most of whom had been appointed by King Henry and had long ruled the shires under Salisbury's administration. I had a taste of it once or twice as the army moved about the country and I was sent with messages. If they would no longer serve the king faithfully, the whole government of the realm would be shaken. I warned Stephen, but he only smiled and said he knew how to manage that problem; he would appoint earls from among his own supporters to oversee the sheriffs.

In August the first overt reaction to the treatment of the bishops burst out. The king was summoned by Henry of Winchester, acting as papal legate, to a council of bishops that was to judge his actions. Stephen did not attend himself but sent Aubrey de Vere as his spokesman—Aubrey de Vere and a crowd of bull-throated, newly created earls. When they returned they were all very pleased with themselves because the council had broken up in confusion with no decision.

I heard Lord Gilbert Fitz Gilbert praising Vere's defense, which I myself found convincing, I must admit. Vere claimed that the king had
not
interfered in any way with the property or privilege of the Church; he had not deprived the bishops of their power over their sees nor had he demanded that anything belonging to the Church be delivered into his hands. Stephen's quarrel with the bishops had been reserved to their activities as ministers of the Crown and their control of secular property, both of which were rightfully the business of the king. What I liked much less was Hugh de Beaumont's laughing comment that Vere's defense might have been masterly, but what sent the bishops home with their tails between their legs were a few suggestions as to what would happen to them and their precious churches if they voted against the king or took their case to Rome without Stephen's permission.

I think that was the final blow to any hope of peace in England. I am sure that many appeals had been made to Empress Matilda and Robert of Gloucester to come to England over the three years of Stephen's reign, particularly during the sporadic rebellions of 1138, but they had not come to help their adherents. I am also sure that there were many reasons for their lack of response, some of which had nothing to do with England, but I think that one cause of their reluctance to commit themselves was the nearly universal support for Stephen from the Church.

King Henry had controlled the Church diplomatically, but also with an iron hand. When Stephen came to the throne, English churchmen had held high expectations of a gentler relationship with the Crown, with more freedom and opportunity to expand their wealth and power. The fierce double blow the king had dealt them—taking two of their most powerful number prisoner and sending his earls to threaten the whole council—had changed that attitude.

A second good reason, to my mind, for Matilda and Robert to delay their coming was that they were waiting for Salisbury to tell them the time was ripe and he was ready to support them. It seems to me that Salisbury's fall, taking from them all hope of a quick and easy victory, rather than discouraging them, made them desperate. They must have seen that Stephen would gain complete control of the country if they did not act at once. While the fury of the bishops was still hot and Salisbury's subordinates had not yet been replaced or fully controlled by Stephen's new earls, there was still hope for them.

The council that destroyed the bishops' hopes for a compromise ended on the kalends of September; on the day before the kalends of October—in a month less a day—Robert of Gloucester and King Henry's daughter Matilda arrived in England, landing at Arundel by the invitation of William d'Aubigny and his wife Adelicia, who by her earlier marriage to King Henry was Matilda's mother-by-law.

Melusine

Queen Maud's mood had been so bad since the court in Oxford that when Bruno told me Robert of Gloucester and Matilda had escaped the patrol ships and come safely to port in Arundel, I nearly wept with despair. It was not so much that the queen was unpleasant or unkind but that a gloom so dark hung over her that it seemed an abomination to be happy oneself. So I felt split in two, because I was happy. From the end of August, after the king had taken possession of the bishops' castles, the queen had joined him and Bruno and I were together.

The only small cloud in my personal sky was that I thought I might once have got with child and lost the babe. I was not certain; I had only missed my flux by a few days when we started a progress from Northampton to Windsor, and it started on the second day. I said nothing to Bruno—I am not sure why. He certainly never reproached me for not conceiving, although he worked very, very hard at the activity necessary to making a baby; on the other hand, I do not think that was his major purpose. To be honest, it was not my major purpose. I had not been completely overjoyed when my bleeding was late, and I felt more guilt than grief when it began because I knew Bruno would have insisted on taking me to Jernaeve once he knew I was with child. But the flux was not heavier than usual when it came, so perhaps I had not conceived after all.

It was a little shadow in my mind though, which made me more sensitive to the queen's heavy heart—thus my despair when I heard news that I thought would make her more sorrowful. To my amazement, the effect was quite different from what I imagined. At first I did not notice much change in her, even when the king reacted with his usual swiftness, gathering an army and marching south. Perhaps that was because I felt so terrible myself; all the light seemed to have gone out of my life when Bruno rode away. At least when the king and queen were together, we sometimes met during the day, and Bruno was always so steady and practical that he lifted my spirits. And we had our evenings and nights together to talk over the news and gossip of our different portions of the court and to laugh and jest…and love.

Then we had the news that Gloucester had escaped from Arundel, taking with him the hundred and forty knights he had brought from Normandy and leaving his half sister Matilda at Arundel, which the king promptly besieged. I wept—not because Gloucester had escaped; I did not care a blown egg about Gloucester, but a siege meant that Bruno might be away from me for months and months.

It was then that the queen's mood changed. Not that Maud was happy, but it was as if a blow she had been dreading had fallen, and the worst had
not
occurred. She shook herself out of the heavy cloud that seemed to have deadened her feelings and dulled her mind. Now her tears flowed. She wept over the danger her husband might encounter if he decided to assault Arundel, but she did not let the tears interfere with a spate of activity in which she made ready to summon more men to the king's aid and to ascertain that supplies flowed in a steady stream toward the king's army. I knew something of that because I wrote some of the orders. She never would have trusted me to do that in the past, but Maud had softened toward me, especially after she had found me weeping over the news of the siege. I had not told her my real reason—she did not ask.

I could have saved my tears though. Before a week had passed, Bruno arrived with a request that I return to Arundel with him to perform a service for the king.

“What service?” Maud asked unbelievingly, and I fear I was standing with my mouth open, so shocked that I could not even force out the same question.

“Melusine knows Empress Matilda,” Bruno replied.

“Knows her?” Maud repeated, turning to look at me.

“I was presented to her twice, but that was eight years ago. I was only fifteen.”

That was all I said, but I recalled that during the second of those meetings Matilda had singled me out several times. Once she even sent a page for me, summoning me by name to my intense disgust; there was no way to avoid the summons if she knew my name. She had infuriated me thoroughly because by her august attention she had deprived me of the opportunity of dancing and talking with friends whom I saw only a few times a year. And there was not a thing in her conversation worth losing that pleasure. She had nothing of interest to say; she did nothing but complain about the crudity of English ways and the lack of manners and respect shown her in contrast to the refined practices of the court of the Holy Roman Emperor—from which she had been gone over five years.

My fury made me dumb in her presence; in fact, I did not even dare raise my head and look at her for fear she would see the contempt in my face, and I knew better than to offend King Henry's daughter no matter what I thought of her. I can only suppose that she took the silence and the bent head for awe and favored my company for that reason. Some of the other ladies were not so careful as I, but most of them were daughters or wives of men much more powerful than my papa. Also, I knew that King Henry did not much trust Papa, so it was more important for me not to add insult to injury.

My face must have shown that there was more than a simple presentation to remember and Maud said, rather dryly, “For the daughter of a simple knight, and a poor one too, you seem to have many friends in high places, Melusine.”

“I would not say I was Empress Matilda's friend,” I answered equally dryly. “There are few people in my part of the realm, madam, so there is never a great crowd attending even the most important persons. Thus, each of those summoned may be noticed more particularly. The empress thought me meek and talked at me.”

Maud laughed. It was not a sound heard frequently these days, and I found, to my surprise, that I was glad I had amused her.

“Talked
at
you,” she said. “Very good. That is a good description of Matilda's conversation.” Her eyes went back to Bruno. “But I do not see what service Melusine could perform despite her acquaintance with Matilda.”

“I suppose she is to serve as a—a kind of hostage,” Bruno replied.

We both stared at him. “Ridiculous!” Maud exclaimed, and I agreed, my sense of the inappropriateness of the idea temporarily overwhelming the hurt I felt that Bruno would agree to use me in such a way. Hostages came from families of power who could exert influence on the king to prevent him from violating whatever pledge the hostages were surety for. There was no sense in taking a poor, powerless hostage. But then Maud frowned and repeated, “Hostage? Is Arundel not besieged? Has there been a battle? How could Matilda demand—”

“I beg pardon, madam,” Bruno interrupted, looking contrite. “I did not mean to cause you any anxiety. The king is safe; the siege has not been broken; there has been no battle. It is my fault for beginning the tale at the wrong end.”

The queen, who had started to rise from her chair, sank back and gestured to Bruno to continue.

“From the beginning then,” he said, smiling faintly. “The advantage of strength is all ours, so much so that she who was Queen Adelicia and her husband sorely repent inviting Matilda to come to them.”

“I will make her very welcome here,” Maud remarked with a grim smile.

“Unfortunately their honor is too much engaged to give her up to imprisonment,” Bruno said.

“Did I speak of imprisonment?” Maud retorted. “She will be my guest, and I will swear on whatever she desires to maintain her in greater luxury than my own until the day she wishes to return to her husband and swears she will never set foot in England again.”

Bruno smiled but shook his head. “You know that offer will not be accepted, madam. The choice was only to assault Arundel keep at great cost with much loss of blood—they cannot be starved out; it is impossible to surround the keep completely because of the river—or to make an offer Aubigny and Adelicia could accept with honor. The king himself wished to try assault and to encourage his barons offered to lead the assault in person, but his advisors felt that would be too costly and too dangerous.”

“Assault
is
too dangerous,” Maud agreed quickly and emphatically, paling as she spoke.

Clever devil Bruno, I thought. I knew he had put in that little bit about the king leading the assault just to frighten the queen. He had succeeded. Maud valued her husband above ten kingdoms. She would agree to any proposal that would prevent assault. But it troubled me that Bruno should use his cleverness against the queen, and it reminded me how far he set his duty above my well-being that he would send me as a hostage into enemy hands. Only just then his eyes flickered toward me, with a glance that warned me he had more to say to me alone and enjoined me to silence. Perhaps I should have been more hurt and angered by that silent command, but that fleeting glance had been more like a sharing of trouble than an order, and I held my tongue.

“So it was decided,” Bruno continued, acknowledging the queen's remark with a nod, “although there was some difficulty in convincing the king, who was torn between his desire to be merciful to his cousin and his wish not to appear weak before his barons. However, by the consent of all, it was decided to send Empress Matilda to her brother in Bristol.”

“But surely it is wrong to free her now that she is trapped in our grasp,” Maud cried, common sense conquering the fear she felt about Stephen engaging in war.

“Perhaps, but to capture her would mean bloodshed, much bloodshed,” Bruno reminded her.

The queen made a furious gesture. “Well, since you have promised her freedom,” she said angrily, “what more does she want?”

“A token of faith, madam,” Bruno said, and before she could burst out into a tirade of rage and frustration, he hurried on. “She desires a woman companion in whom she believes she can trust, and after many ladies were considered, the bishop of Winchester suggested Melusine; the king felt she would make a perfect envoy, and the empress recalled her and found her acceptable.”

“And you agreed to this?” Maud asked. “You will let your wife be dragged to Bristol in a crowd of enemies with Matilda as her sole female companion. Well, you do not know Matilda, but she—”

“Forgive me for interrupting you again, madam, but I fear you do not understand the whole conditions. Naturally the king, having the upper hand, would not permit Aubigny to escort the empress. That is why a lady companion was deemed necessary. It was decided that Lord Waleran and the bishop of Winchester will escort the empress.”

“Waleran and Henry—” the queen began with a quick intake of breath, but then she added, very quickly, as if she hoped to overlay her first words in our memories, “I still think it not safe for Melusine. I am afraid that—”

“I will escort my wife, madam,” Bruno said, his mouth grim. “I would agree on no other terms. If Melusine could have joined the bishop of Winchester's people…but that was impossible. I am aware of Empress Matilda's reputation although I do not know her in person, and I would not endure that Melusine be Matilda's plaything or the butt of her jests.”

The queen asked some further questions to which I paid little attention. A great joy had burst over me when Bruno said he would go with me, and I no longer cared much who else would be in our company. I already knew Matilda to be an arrogant fool, and an arrogant fool stripped of her power, so I did not fear her at all. If all she desired of me was silent attention with a meek little “Yes, my lady,” at each pause, I would provide that gladly to keep her happy; but if she thought she could take any liberties with my person, she would soon learn her judgment of me as a meek pet bitch was mistaken.

At a pause in the conversation, I came forward and bowed and asked, “My accounts, madam, to whom should I give them? And should they be proved before I leave?”

“Do you not expect to return?” Maud asked.

“Of course I do, madam,” I replied, smiling. “Otherwise, why should I care that the accounts be proved? If I take them up again after some mistake or dishonesty is recorded, how could I prove that mistake or dishonesty was not mine?”

“I assure you, Melusine,” the queen said, chuckling, “that I would never think any dishonesty or mistake yours. A dishonesty in goods or money would be impossible, and any mistake you made would have my seal or my name writ beside it. Still, you may do as you did in the beginning. Rule a line below your last entry, sign it, and bring it to me and I will set my seal there so anything writ after the rule will be another's work.”

I do not really remember the rest of that day. Although he had concealed it in the queen's presence, Bruno was nearly crazy with impatience to leave. He made me leave my chest and bundle all my court gowns and toilet necessities into a blanket, which was strapped behind Cormi's horse; Edna was to ride pillion behind Merwyn and Fechin in turn; and we set off in the late afternoon at a pace which soon became unsafe in the gathering dusk. We rode until we could not see, then rested until the moon rose and rode on. I am a strong rider, but I found myself swaying in my saddle more than once, and after a time I heard one of the men telling Bruno that he thought the girl must be allowed to rest.

“She must endure until we come to Steyning,” Bruno said. “Tie her to the horse if you must.” He turned to look at me. “Do you want to ride before me so you can sleep, Melusine?”

I made myself laugh, although I was ready to weep with weariness. “Do not be a fool. I am no feather like Edna. Barbe will founder if you add my weight to yours. Besides, it is not so much my eyes that are tired as a certain other part, and exchanging your saddle for mine will not mend that.”

“You are a treasure, Melusine,” Bruno muttered, leaning from Barbe to kiss me. “I will explain when we get to Steyning. There is a chamber awaiting us there.”

“At this time of night?”

“Yes. I told them I would be late.”