The Fatal Crown (16 page)

Maud had an eager look on her face and, to Stephen’s amusement, she began to shout words of encouragement to the rider of the black colt. Brian’s bay bounded forward, running neck and neck with the chestnut. The colts were about three-quarters of the way across the field now. In her excitement Maud gripped Stephen’s arm with tense fingers; he doubted she even noticed. Her face was taut with expectancy, her coral lips parted, and Stephen was surprised to realize that she very badly wanted her colt to win.

Slowly the black colt began to gain speed, finally he shot forward like a dark arrow to overtake the others and reach the end of the field first. The bay colt was half a head behind him.

Flushed with victory, Maud looked up at Stephen. “You see, I was right.”

“I never doubted you for a moment,” he said, smiling at the sense of triumph in her voice, astonished that only a simple race held by yokels should matter so much to her. Before he realized what he was doing he had reached into the purse at his belt and pulled out the Limoges box he had intended for Matilda. “You must have this as a reward.”

“How lovely. But I’m not sure—”

“As a favor to me. I want you to have it.” Stephen was absurdly pleased when he saw her fingers curl around the box. Fortunately the others hadn’t noticed.

Brian was jubilant. “A fool, eh, Leicester? Where is our money?”

“Well, Lady Maud wins, I agree,” Robin said, disgruntled. “But you? The bay did not come in first.”

“You’re not very sporting, my friend. A close second is almost as good as a first. Surely you can see that.”

Stephen and Maud left them arguing while they rode to the White Tower.

The sky had darkened, and London was covered in a swirling fog by the time they reached Stephen’s home. Maud knew this fortress had been built by her grandfather, the Conqueror, to keep watch and ward over defeated Saxon London, and that her father had made a gift of it to Stephen when he married Countess Matilda of Boulogne. Built to inspire terror and submission, the Tower’s heavy walls, pierced by thin slits, were buttressed from ground to battlements; the massive keep, topped by four turrets, was protected by a wide moat. As they approached, a guard shouted from the gatehouse, the wooden drawbridge thundered down, and Stephen and Maud rode across the causeway into the outer bailey. Huge torches borne by waiting attendants cast an eerie light on the pale stone walls.

Maud did not look forward to this second meeting between herself and Matilda. Her anxiety increased as she followed Stephen into the Tower, past the great hall, the sword room, and the chapel, then on up a winding staircase to Matilda’s solar on the third floor. Steeling herself, Maud resolved that neither by word nor gesture would she reveal how she felt toward Stephen.

Seated before a charcoal brazier on a woven wool rug, Matilda, dressed in a soft blue tunic over a white gown, played with her son, Baldwin. With a welcoming smile, she rose at once when Maud and Stephen entered.

“Cousin, I’m so happy you agreed to come.” Matilda held out her arms in a spontaneous gesture. Reluctantly, Maud came forward to receive her cousin’s kiss.

“How like my mother you are,” Maud said awkwardly.

“Everyone says the same. I’m deeply honored, for my aunt was truly a saint. We must go together to visit her tomb.”

“Yes, I would like that.” Maud looked down at Baldwin, a large rosy child who, with his green eyes and honey-brown curls, looked just like Stephen. “He is big for his age—three years is it?”

“Just two,” Stephen said with pride, sweeping Baldwin up into his arms.

“We have a new daughter,” Matilda said. “Perhaps you would like to see her?”

“Why—yes, indeed, that would be very nice.” Maud forced herself to smile, growing more ill at ease with every passing moment. She was painfully aware of Stephen’s affection for his son.

“Stephen, do you take our cousin to the nursery where the babe is being fed by the wet nurse. Then we will take a light supper. Afterwards I will show Maud the tapestry I’m working on, a scene depicting Our Lord and Our Blessed Lady at the wedding in Cana. By then it will be time to attend Compline in the chapel.” Matilda beamed at them.

Silently, Maud followed Stephen out of the solar. There was no mistaking the bond of affinity between Stephen, his wife, and his child. Unprepared for this kind of domestic happiness, which she herself had never experienced, Maud felt like an intruder. She had always known there could never be anything between Stephen and herself, but now, seeing him with his family, that knowledge was confirmed beyond all doubt.

“You will now see the fairest of all maidens,” Stephen said, pushing open a sturdy oak door to reveal a small stone chamber warmed by several charcoal braziers.

A large woman, the bodice of her gown open, sat on a stone bench nursing a tiny infant wrapped in a wool shawl. Seeing them enter, she closed her bodice, stood up, and handed Stephen the babe.

“Your daughter thrives, my lord,” she said proudly.

Stephen took the child in his arms, cradling her against his chest. “Is she not beautiful?”

“Yes, indeed, most beautiful,” Maud said dutifully. In truth, the infant looked like every other she had seen: red, wrinkled, its head covered with flaxen fuzz like a newborn chick.

As Stephen continued to croon over his daughter, Maud found she could not bear to watch. Heartsick, she turned away. Behind her she heard Stephen give the child back to its nurse. He took her arm and quickly led her out of the chamber.

“You have a lovely daughter, Stephen,” Maud said in a low voice, knowing she must escape from all this familial contentment. “I—I find myself unwell, very fatigued after the journey from Windsor and the activity today. Is it possible I could return now to Westminster?” She started to walk down the passageway when Stephen caught her arm.

“No, it is not possible. You would not arrive until early morning and Matilda would not understand your urgency to leave.”

“But I must go, don’t you see—” she said, her voice trembling, and turned to walk quickly down the hall.

Stephen reached out and grasped her arm, pulling her to him in an iron grip. “If you think this is any easier for me—” he began.

Their eyes met, locked, and neither could look away.

Slowly Stephen bent his head, found her lips, and began to kiss her with a fierce hunger that had suddenly, savagely unleashed itself. Instead of pushing him away, Maud found herself yielding to his hunger, and then not just yielding but meeting it with the force of her own need. The warm insistent pressure of his mouth parted her lips, sending currents of fire throughout her body. The urgency of her own response, which shocked and frightened her, seemed to amaze Stephen, whose passion quickened like a bonfire as he crushed her pliant body closer, tasting the sweetness of her mouth as if he could never get enough. His hands slid under her cloak to seek the fullness of her breasts, when the sound of laughter made them jump guiltily apart.

Breathing heavily, her head reeling as if she had drunk too much wine, Maud stood rooted to the stone floor as two guards rounded a corner and walked by them on their way to the battlements.

“Good evening, my lord,” they said, nodding to Stephen.

After the guards had passed, Maud and Stephen stared at each other for a moment.

“I will see that you are escorted home at first light,” Stephen said in a husky voice.

Deeply shaken, Maud followed Stephen back to the solar. Her body was in turmoil. Nothing in her life had prepared her for the overwhelming feelings Stephen had evoked. It was as if she had been set adrift in a stormy sea with no land in sight. Terrified, she knew that she must never allow herself to lose control again.

T
HE NEXT THREE MONTHS
passed in a pleasant haze of activity.

Stephen saw Maud as often as was seemly but, by tacit agreement, never alone. However, even in the presence of others Stephen worried that he would betray himself by an unguarded word or gesture. No matter who they were with, if they so much as glanced at each other, the rest of the world fell away. Stephen feared the pull between them, as strong as any channel undertow, must be evident to all around them.

On the night before the King’s proclamation, which was to be announced at a Christmas Eve feast the following day, Stephen and Matilda were undressing in their chamber. Glowing white tapers illuminated the canopied bed, wooden bench, oak table, and Matilda’s prie-dieu. A charcoal brazier set in a silver basin warmed the room against the December chill seeping in through the cracks in the massive stone walls.

“What ailed your brother tonight?” Matilda asked, as she turned down the bed’s fur-lined red coverlet. “At supper he was unusually silent and dour. I would have expected him to be delighted at tomorrow’s proclamation. Instead, one would think he attends a funeral.”

Shivering in his linen underdrawers, Stephen opened the heavy oak door to ensure the guards were on watch.

“I don’t know, dear heart.” He had noticed that Henry was troubled about something, had been even before they left Normandy in September. Stephen had no idea what it was.

When his brother arrived in London from his See of Glastonbury, Stephen had also expected him to be jubilant over the news of the special announcement and the King of Scotland’s visit. Instead Henry had been reserved, advising Stephen not to get his hopes up too soon, and behaving so strangely that Stephen had become irritated.

Matilda pulled off her linen chemise, and stood naked for a moment, her milky skin in goose bumps from the cold. Aware of Stephen eyeing her slender, childlike body with its narrow hips, small breasts, and rounded buttocks, she climbed quickly into the bed, tucking the fur coverlet up to her chin.

Stephen stepped out of his drawers and slid into bed beside his wife.

Matilda yawned. “Just think, Stephen. On the very eve of Our Lord’s birth, you will be announced as heir to the throne.” She curled up happily beside him.

Stephen was too excited to sleep, a jumble of thoughts filling his mind: his brother’s unexplained attitude; anticipation for tomorrow’s events; and, as always, his cousin Maud.

Just the thought of her brought a stir to his loins, and, instinctively, he started to reach for his wife. As his fingers touched Matilda’s bare shoulder, he felt her stiffen; the candlelight revealed the look of distaste, quickly repressed, that passed over her face. With a sigh, he patted her shoulder, reached over to the table and blew out the candles, then turned on his back. Beside him he heard Matilda let out a long breath in relief.

“Good night, dear husband,” she whispered gratefully.

Stephen closed his eyes, his thoughts traveling to Maud. Try as he would, he could not banish the memory of their encounter in the passage. The warmth of her lips, the feel of her lithe body in his arms, lingered in his mind like the fragrance of summer roses which haunts the air when the blossoms are gone. The situation between them was hopeless, yet, caught in a web of desire that held him in thrall, he could not stop thinking of her.

Turning restlessly in the wide bed, he gave himself up to an impossible fantasy: lying unclothed on a fur-lined coverlet before a roaring hearth, Maud’s russet hair flowing loose about her creamy neck and shoulders. Her gray eyes were heavy-lidded with desire, her full lips parted to receive his kiss. The firelight cast shadows on her naked body; warm arms reached out to enfold him.

Maud would be as she had been in the passage: hot-blooded, responsive, her passion matching his own, her body quivering in expectation of being possessed. And his possession of her would be wild and unrestrained. Urgent need meeting urgent need.

Drenched in his own sweat, Stephen suddenly sat up, his heart beating wildly. He looked guiltily at Matilda, breathing evenly in her untroubled sleep. Waking her to ease the ache in his loin would bring only a temporary relief, he knew, for she was unable either to understand or to share the vibrant passion he craved.

As he gazed at his wife’s sweet face, desire ebbed. Stephen placed a gentle kiss on her cheek, then lay on his back again, one arm flung over his head. He prayed God that in time his passion for Maud would blow over, a brief, wild storm that vanishes as quickly as it begins. Matilda was his wife, the mother of his children, and soon, with God’s grace, she would be his queen as well. Surely that was enough. It would have to be enough.

The next day Maud woke to the sound of the bells of St. Paul chiming throughout the city. Christmas Eve. The big feast and the King’s proclamation.

A few hours before the feast, Maud retired to her own apartments to dress. Her father had given her a large Norman retinue of women, servants, grooms, and a chaplain. He had established her in her own quarters at Westminster, and she began to feel that at last he was treating her with the respect due an empress. He encouraged her to explore London and the surrounding countryside, arranged for her to meet the leading citizens of the city and the nobles who came to Westminster. But there was still no mention of her future.

All things considered, Maud felt she would be quite content—if it were not for her longing for Stephen, a longing constantly being stimulated but never fulfilled. They were in each other’s company at least two or three times a week, riding through the park between Westminster and Ludgate, climbing the tree-covered slopes of Highgate, or visiting the frozen marsh at Moorfields to watch young men tie the shinbones of animals to their feet and, with the help of ironspiked sticks, glide over the ice. Together they explored the woods of St. John and hunted with hawk and hound—but these excursions were always undertaken in the company of others.

Wherever they went, Maud was surprised to see the Londoners’ warm response to Stephen. Her father might know all the significant landowners in his kingdom, but Stephen belonged to the citizens of London. From prosperous burghers and merchants to humble churchmen, weavers, and apprentices, everyone knew Stephen of Blois. And everyone, it seemed to Maud, had fallen under the spell of his easygoing charm. When she was with him their pleasure in seeing Stephen was extended to her as well.