The Fatal Crown (17 page)

Maud finished her toilet just as the Vespers bell rang. When she reached the abbey, the entire court, which by now included nobles from all over the King’s realm, was already there to hear the special Christmas Eve Mass. Maud noted that only her father and the newly arrived King of Scotland were absent.

Later everyone assembled in the great hall of Westminster to wait for the King and his royal guest to appear. Yew torches flared brightly around the tapestried walls. Great Yule logs blazed in the central fire; newly spread dried rushes mixed with herbs covered the floor. Scarlet holly, dark green ivy, and white-flowered mistletoe hung from the wooden beams of the ceiling.

“You look beautiful, Sister,” said Robert, smiling, his Welsh wife, Mabel, in tow.

Maud returned his smile, but her eyes sought Stephen who pushed through the crowd toward her. With Matilda on his arm, he looked resplendent in crimson tunic and black hose, a black cloak lined with fox fur thrown over his shoulders. The open admiration in his eyes was ample reward for the hours Maud and her ladies had taken with her appearance. Over a gown made of the bolt of sky-blue silk, she wore a tunic of darker blue with long hanging sleeves. A girdle of wrought gold filigree encircled her waist; on her bosom lay a small gold cross set with pearls and rubies, made for her by the finest goldsmith in Italy. About her shoulders hung a midnight blue cloak, lined in ermine. Over her hair lay a gauze veil held in place by a gold circlet set with pearls. Aware of everyone’s eyes on her, Maud’s cheeks flushed with pleasure and her pewter eyes sparkled.

“Here he is,” Robert whispered, making a low bow.

Preceded by his chief steward, King Henry entered the great hall arm in arm with King David of Scotland. He was followed by the Archbishop of Canterbury, William of Corbeil; the Bishop of Salisbury; and, lastly Queen Adelicia.

The sight of her Uncle David was a shock to Maud, who, knowing he had been partly raised in Norman England, expected him to look and behave like a Norman. Instead, she found herself swept up into the great arms of a sandy-haired giant with a craggy, weatherbeaten face, who kissed her soundly on both cheeks.

“Aye, ’tis a bonnie lass ye have, Henry.” David of Scotland held Maud’s face in a huge hairy paw, gazing down at her with the trusting blue eyes of her mother. “I canna find a trace o’ my poor sister, Matilda,” he continued. “Maud do be all Norman.”

The chief server blew his ivory horn. Everyone scrambled for seats at the trestle tables laid with trenchers of bread, great pewter salt cellars, and wooden bowls of ale. The King, with his immediate family and chief ecclesiasts, seated themselves at the high table placed on a raised dais. Covered with a snowy linen cloth, the table was decorated with boughs of holly and set with silver goblets. Much to her surprise and confusion, Maud was given a place of honor between the two kings. Surely this place should have been Stephen’s?

“I ha’ na seen ye since ye were a wee bairn,” David of Scotland murmured in Maud’s ear.

Before she could reply, the doors at the far end of the hall opened, and a long procession of serving-men emerged, headed by the chief cook who carried a huge platter of boar’s head with ivory tusks in its snout and an apple in its mouth, garnished all over with bright red holly berries and leaves of green ivy. The boar was followed by smoking platters of venison, hare, cranes, peacocks in their feathers, a whole roast kid, suckling pig, and a huge goose, its skin brown and crackling. Rabbit in wine, stewed lampreys, a whole carp, and assorted fish pasties came next, until the table creaked with the abundance of food.

Hovering squires carved the meat and served their lords on bended knee. Pages poured wine into silver goblets and raced to and from the kitchen with basins of water and napkins to wash the fingers of the diners.

Maud’s Uncle David hovered over her like a doting parent. “Ye must taste this slice o’ goose breast, Niece,” he insisted. He fed her first, then himself, but saved the choicest morsels, she noticed, for two huge Scottish deerhounds sitting proudly beside him, who had accompanied him from Scotland.

For no reason she could readily determine, Maud could taste nothing of the food her uncle offered her. From time to time she glanced at Stephen, who returned her looks with a brief, conspiratorial smile that filled her with delight. She was aware of tension at the high table, as well as everywhere else in the hall, for everyone’s eyes kept turning expectantly to King Henry. Like herself, they were impatiently waiting for the promised proclamation.

The platters of food were removed, replaced by bowls of fruit and nuts, trays of sweetmeats, marchpane, and honey cakes. The steward then carried into the hall a great bowl of “lamb’s wool,” a highly spiced wine mixed with nutmeg, ginger, honey, toasted crumbs, and roasted crab apples that floated white and fleecy on the surface. The King drank to those attending his Christmas court, and in return the nobles drank to him, crying “Wassail! Wassail! Wassail!”

Maud had never seen this ritual before, but Uncle David explained that it was an old Saxon custom adopted by the King. When the toast was done, Henry’s favorite minstrel sang several
chansons de geste.
By the time he was finished, the torches were sputtering, wreaths of smoke swirled round the blackened beams of the ceiling, and the heat in the room was growing uncomfortable. Mantles were opened, booted feet impatiently stirred the rushes, belts were unbuckled, and faces had turned ruddy from the wine; even a few snores were heard.

Finally the tables were cleared, the servitors withdrew, and the steward called for silence.

Rising slowly to his feet, King Henry, hooking his thumbs in his belt, surveyed the great hall in a long sweeping glance that missed nothing and no one. There was not a sound in the room.

“Peers of the church, lords of England and Normandy, I have called you here upon this Christmas Eve to make known my intention for the future of the royal succession.”

From the corner of her eye, Maud saw an expectant smile hover about Stephen’s lips.

“Let us return for a moment,” Henry continued, “to the unhappy blow of fate that took from me my only son, Prince William.” He signed himself. “Had he lived, William would have come after me and the problem of the succession would never have arisen.” Heads in the room nodded.

“As I was already a widower, following William’s death I married the virtuous Adelicia of Louvain, in hopes of begetting more sons. Unfortunately God has not yet seen fit to answer our prayers.” He stopped as all eyes turned to Alix, who sat perfectly still as though carved in white marble.

Maud’s heart ached for the humiliation Alix must be suffering at this public reminder of her barrenness.

“Of course, the Queen is young and I hope to live many more years, so we have not yet given up hope.” He waited until the murmurs of agreement died down.

“However, in the event that no son is born to me, happily, I repeat, happily, I have a daughter who has returned to England to live amongst her people once again.”

Puzzled, everyone’s eyes now turned to Maud, who was mystified by her father’s words.

“The Princess Maud is the legitimate descendant of rulers: Her grandfather was the great Conqueror, her Uncle William Rufus ruled England before me, and I am sure no one here need be reminded of the great lineage of the Dukes of Normandy.”

He walked past Maud until he stood behind the King of Scotland. “On her mother’s side, my daughter’s forebears are no less illustrious: She is the descendant of fourteen rulers, from the King of the West Saxons, who ruled over two hundred years ago, to the King of Scotland, who sits before you now. In addition, she has the distinction of being the widow of the Holy Roman Emperor, and was bred since childhood to the ways of kingship.”

Taking a few steps, Henry placed his hands on Maud’s shoulders. “Here is the rightful heir to the throne of England and Normandy, should I lack a legitimate son at my death.”

So great was Maud’s shock and amazement that she felt as if she had just shot out of her body and was floating some feet above her head. Every action her father had taken, from recalling her to England to insisting she remove the Imperial crown, suddenly became clear; she forgave him everything. Her feeling of joy was intoxicating, overpowering.

Maud drew back her head to look up at her father, her eyes shining with gratitude. She could find no words to express the fullness in her heart. He gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

The silence in the room was like death. The stunned nobles stared at the King in horror. Henry’s eyes swept the hall. A frown creased his brow and an implacable expression settled across his features as he spoke.

“In a fortnight’s time there will be an homage ceremony, where I will call upon each and every one of you to swear a solemn oath to uphold the Princess Maud as Queen after my death.”

In the glory of the moment Maud had forgotten Stephen and how this news might affect him. Quite suddenly she had become his rival and she knew an instant of fear. Would he change toward her? She quickly looked at her cousin, then drew back with a gasp. His eyes, glittering with overt hostility in a white and frozen mask, were those of a stranger.

Her father’s voice forced Maud to turn away from the cold enmity in Stephen’s face.

“Should any dissent, speak now or hold your peace hereafter.” The King’s eyes searched the hall once more. No one spoke. “It is agreed then. I expect to see you all at the homage ceremony.”

When he had finished no one looked at Maud, whose unalloyed happiness was now rapidly fading. In the first shock of exultation she had lost sight of the fact that naming a woman heir to the throne was an unprecedented action. But nothing could have prepared her for the expressions of appalled incredulity, bitter outrage, wild anger, even hatred, she saw reflected in the faces around her.

Her cousin Matilda was openly crying; the de Beaumont twins wore identical expressions of shocked disbelief. Her brother Robert gave her a crooked smile that did not quite conceal the pain shadowed in his eyes. Stephen’s brother, the Abbot of Glastonbury, gazed at her with the mournful expression of a man who has feared the worst and seen it come to pass. Maud knew she would never forget that Brian FitzCount was the only noble in the hall to give her an encouraging grin; he alone had rallied to the glory of the occasion.

“Dinna fret at what ye see, lass,” David of Scotland said in her ear. “It were a wee shock to the lords. Ye father has broken new ground here and ye must give the seed time to take root.” He patted her hand. “Ye father will ha’ his way in the end, depend on it.”

Maud wished she could share his certainty. She watched the magnates and their wives, including Stephen and Matilda, hurry out of the hall, pulling their cloaks about them against the winter chill. Not one of them approached either herself or the King to offer congratulations and extend support. Miserable, Maud felt as if she had just committed a heinous crime instead of having received the realm’s highest honor. Rising to her feet, she followed her father out of the hall.

“Come to my conference chamber after Sext tomorrow,” the King, visibly shaken, said to her before he and Alix started for their own quarters.

So he was as surprised by the hostile response as she, Maud reflected. The memory of Stephen’s accusing face haunted her. Did he hate her now? Believe that she had known of the announcement from the beginning? She could not bear the thought that he might no longer care for her. Tears pricked behind her eyelids. Yet underneath her concern and shock lay the stunning realization that one day she would be Queen of England and Duchess of Normandy. Never, not in her wildest dreams, had she imagined such an honor. Despite everything, Maud felt a heady surge of triumph that could not be denied.

I
N THE GRIP OF AN ICY RAGE
, Stephen pulled Matilda through the throng of nobles, determined to reach the outer doors of Westminster before someone stopped him. He heard the voices of the de Beaumont twins and his brother calling his name, but ignored them. If someone offered him one word of sympathy, he thought savagely, he would fell them with a blow.

Outside, Stephen found Gervase and other members of his mesnie gathered in the courtyard. One look at their stricken faces left no doubt that the shattering news had reached them.

“We are not staying the night at Westminster. Gervase and the others will escort you to the Tower,” he told Matilda, helping her into a waiting litter. “You won’t arrive till morning but that can’t be helped.”

Her eyes still wet with tears, Matilda clutched at his arm. “Dear heart, do you come with me?”

“No. I have business to attend to.”

“At this hour?”

“At whatever hour I choose.” Stephen’s face was set in stone, his eyes as frosty as the North Sea.

Frightened, Matilda shrank back into the litter as Stephen slammed the curtains closed. Overhearing their exchange, Gervase approached Stephen with an anxious look.

“My lord—wherever you go, take Arnulf and Gilbert along. I beg you not to travel alone.”

Stephen ignored him and jumped onto his mare, Audrade. He spurred the horse forward, and headed toward the river. Some way behind him he heard the sound of horses’ hooves. The knights, Arnulf and Gilbert, he assumed, but did not turn back to look.

He was still stunned by the King’s proclamation, the crushing, totally unexpected humiliation he had experienced before his peers. It was almost impossible to take in the enormity of his loss. Everyone had assumed he would be named the King’s heir. To be deprived of a crown that he had thought virtually within his grasp was an overwhelming disappointment; but to have lost it to a woman—and to Maud in particular, Maud, with whom he had thought himself so hopelessly in love—was devastating. No, he contradicted himself angrily, not love. What a fool he had been to think so. Lust. Yes, he had lusted after her, no more than that. And once he had possessed her, it would have been finished for him, for there was little sport to be had once the game was won.

Approaching the Thames, Stephen looked for the ferry that would take him across to Southwark. The silence of the mild December night was broken only by the water lapping against the riverbank, the sound of horses’ hooves smacking against the hard earth. Finally he found the flat-bottomed ferry moored to the quay and, dismounting, led his mare up the gangplank and onto the deck. The two knights followed behind, but he paid them no attention. Perched in the prow, the oarsman pushed off from the bank and rowed the boat silently across the river.