The Fatal Crown (18 page)

Oblivious to his surroundings, Stephen relived the scene in the great hall over and over. How could he have been so blind, how could they all have been so blind, to the King’s intention ? Who would have dreamed King Henry capable of such an appalling outrage, such an unprecedented act? For a moment Stephen wondered if the King might not be in his dotage. Irrational behavior was common among men in old age; it seemed the only logical explanation, yet in all other aspects the King appeared as alert as ever.

How much had Maud known? he wondered. Had she been privy to her father’s plans from the start, dissembling so adroitly he had never had the slightest suspicion? Stephen writhed with shame to think how deeply he had trusted his cousin, confiding to her his ambitions and hopes for the future. What a fool he had made of himself. Maud. Maud. His heart cried out to her as anguish stabbed through his vitals like a sword thrust. The loss of his dreams, his hopes, stung like a raw open wound.

The ferry bumped the opposite shore. Stephen led Audrade onto solid ground, mounted her, and turned left toward Southwark, galloping recklessly along the riverbank. He had no destination in mind, just an urgent need to give vent to his hurt and rage. Every instinct told him the King had made a fatal mistake. How could his uncle imagine that his subjects would accept such a decision when both magnates and commonfolk had expected he, Stephen, to rule? Had the King forgotten how popular he was? Stephen could not imagine a future in which he would not be king. Something must be done, he vowed; he could not, would not, allow the whole course of his life to be altered. His brother, he thought, a spark of hope penetrating the black rush of his thoughts. His brother Henry would know what to do.

That same night, Brian FitzCount stifled a yawn as he sat across from King Henry in the chamber used to conduct the administrative business of the realm. Beside him, the Bishop of Salisbury, his head fallen over his portly chest, snored softly. The chamber, lit by a score of wax tapers, resembled a monastic scriptorium. In its center stood a long oak table piled high with rolls of parchment and books bound in vellum. Scrolls of parchment and books also filled the iron-bound chests that lined the walls. A black-robed cleric bent over the far end of the table scrutinizing a roll of yellowing parchment, so old it crumbled at the corners. Another cleric, perched atop a high stool, held a wax tablet and stylus in his lap.

The abbey bells rang for Lauds. Three hours after midnight, Brian thought, and they had already been here two hours. King Henry, his chin in his hand, brooded over some inner vision of his own. Suddenly he turned to Brian.

“I still can’t believe it,” he muttered. “I realized that naming Maud as my heir would take some getting used to, but the hostility I saw, the outrage—” He lapsed again into silence.

So the King was stunned by the unexpected response to the long-awaited proclamation, Brian realized in surprise. He had expected him to be furious. Strange that such a crafty sovereign should be so blind in this instance. But he had also been blind to the despicable character of his son and heir, William, refusing to see what was obvious to everyone else. Where the succession was concerned, it was now apparent the King saw only that which he wished to see.

“There must be a precedent,” Henry said. “There must be.”

Brian doubted they would find one. Shortly after Matins he had been awakened from a sound sleep and told to attend the King. When he arrived in the chamber, Bishop Roger was already there. The three men had waited while the clerics conducted a frantic search for any evidence of a woman succeeding when no male of the ruling family was available.

“I have found something, Sire,” a cleric finally said, his voice blurry from lack of sleep.

He ran an ink-stained finger over the lines of faded parchment. “A few hundred years ago the King of Wessex passed away and his queen reigned after him for a year.” He looked up. “Then she was removed. The writer of this chronicle suggests that perhaps men could no longer stomach taking orders from a woman.”

“God forbid the magnates should hear of this. Is that the only example of a female ruler?” the King asked.

“All I can find, Sire.”

“Keep looking. Wake up, Roger.” He reached over and shook the sleeping bishop. “Listen to this.”

Roger started awake. “Yes, Sire.” He heard what had been found, then shook his head. “It’s as I feared. Nothing in the past will be of any help, but the chronicle brings up a point I’ve already mentioned to you: Neither noble nor church will accept a woman ruling alone. It goes against the grain and you’ll have rebellion on your hands.”

Henry snorted. “As I’ve told you, Roger, there’s no question of her ruling alone. Naturally there must be a king-consort. Do I look like a fool? But the first order of importance is that my magnates swear homage to Maud.” He rose to his feet and began to pace the chamber.

“You have someone specific in mind? Who is it?” Roger asked.

“Let us say the matter is well in hand. Be patient.”

How typical of the secretive king to withhold the vital information of Maud’s future husband, Brian thought. Obviously he must be someone the magnates would resist, or why not immediately announce the fact? Brian’s heart sank. Every instinct he possessed told him the King was headed for a course that could easily lead the realm to disaster. He must at least make an effort to prevent that.

“Sire, it occurs to me that feelings may run high against this homage ceremony. There are those who will leave England rather than swear fealty to your daughter. The magnates had their hearts set on Stephen, and Stephen himself expected to be the heir. Perhaps, to give everyone time to adjust—”

Henry held up his hand for silence, slowed his pacing, and came to rest before Brian. “I know all about my nephew’s hopes, never fostered by me, I might add. As for the nobles leaving England—I’ve thought of that and already arranged to have the cinque ports watched. Anyone trying to leave will be stopped. For those who refuse to swear—there’s plenty of room in my dungeons.”

Brian saw Roger stare at the King in consternation. He gave a sigh of resignation. He had done what he could. So be it. Matters would fall out as God willed.

“The matter is closed,” King Henry said, resuming his seat at the table. He pointed to the nodding cleric who held the wax tablet on his lap. “You, what is the order of precedence I gave regarding the ceremony?”

The cleric twitched awake and glanced down at his wax tablet. “Ah, let me see, first to swear will be the Archbishop of Canterbury, then the other peers of the church. The first of the lay peers to swear homage will be the King of Scotland, then the Earl of Gloucester, then the Count of Mortain—”

“What!” Brian and the Bishop rose to their feet in unison.

“A grave mistake, Sire,” the Bishop protested, his jowls quivering with outrage. “You cannot allow a bastard, no matter how high his position, regardless of the esteem in which he is held, take precedence before Stephen of Blois. That is truly asking for trouble.” He turned to Brian. “My Lord of Wallingford, you’ll support me in this?”

“Absolutely, Your Grace. I beg of you, Sire, Stephen and his brother Henry will take this as a mortal insult to the House of Blois, coming as it does on the heels of their earlier … disappointment. My Lord of Gloucester must swear after Stephen.”

The King was silent. “Robert is the child of my heart. Had it been in my power, I would have made him my heir. You both know he is the best qualified. But fate has determined otherwise. The least I can do to honor him is to have him swear homage to his sister right after the King of Scotland. Surely it is a small thing, but important to me.”

His voice had become almost pleading, which fooled no one present, thought Brian. It was not a small thing, and the King knew it well enough. But neither he nor the Bishop voiced further protest. To continue to oppose Henry of England was the quickest way to the dungeon—or the grave.

Brian knew there was no way he could point out King Henry’s mistakes to him, beginning with making Maud his heir, and now letting Robert swear before Stephen, thus adding insult to Stephen’s already injured feelings. If the King made enemies of his two nephews there might be far-reaching consequences, consequences that would not be manifest until after his death, when it came time for everyone to fulfill their oath to see Maud crowned. And if, in addition, there was the wrong choice of king-consort … Folly piled upon folly. Where would it end?

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING, ON
the third floor of the White Tower, Stephen lay on the wooden frame bed in his chamber, a bruise above his cheekbone, one arm wrapped in a clean white cloth. With his other hand he sipped from a pewter tankard. Beside him, seated on a cushioned stool, his brother Henry fixed him with a stern eye.

“What happened to you last night?” the Abbot asked. “The truth now.”

Stephen told him how he had spent half the night riding aimlessly through Southwark, then stopped at a bankside tavern and finally ended up in a drunken brawl. “My head aches and my arm is stiff but I’m none the worse for it.”

“Are you able to bear more ill news?” Henry asked.

Stephen gave a bitter laugh. “What could be worse than last night’s apocalypse?”

The Abbot moved his stool closer to the bed, and gave a perfunctory glance around the empty chamber. “I have this straight from the Bishop of Salisbury’s lips: At the homage ceremony, after the peers of the church have sworn, the first lay peer to swear homage to Maud will be the King of Scotland. By all rights, you should swear next. But Robert is to swear before you.”

Stephen stared at his brother, aghast. A cold fury swept through his body. “I take that as a mortal insult to our house and won’t attend the ceremony. I’ll sail for Boulogne before the week is out.”

“The cinque ports are watched by the King’s men. Every noble I’ve spoken with has insisted they won’t swear homage to the German empress and threatened to leave England. Empty words. In the end everyone will do the King’s bidding. No one wants to see the inside of our uncle’s dungeons, have his lands confiscated, or face banishment.”

“But we are his nephews!”

“What is that to a man who had one brother killed and another imprisoned for life?”

Stephen stared at his brother, then looked away. “Yes, I see your point. All right, then I’ll be too ill to attend. What can he do?” Anger and hurt continued to war within him. “Why has he forsaken us, Henry, why?”

“He hasn’t forsaken us.” The Abbot rose to his feet. “There was no insult intended, I feel sure of it. The King is of an age when he feels threatened by his own mortality and the judgment of heaven. Robert is his favorite and he hopes to do him this one last honor. He made Maud his heir because the man is obsessed with founding his own dynasty, one sprung from his own loins. How else can he justify the crimes he has committed—and his father before him? His desire to ensure the continuity of the Norman line has clouded his usually sound judgment. Unless steps are taken to remedy the matter we’ll all live to regret it.”

“It all sounds very complex. The fact remains that he has insulted us and I still refuse to attend.”

The Abbot pursed his lips and fingered the jeweled cross on his breast. “Of course, if you’re willing to jeopardize your position over a simple matter of wounded pride—”

“What position?”

“I speak of your future, blockhead. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. How can you ever become king if you’re in bed nursing your grievances and flaunting the King’s will? How can I hope to help you as the brother of a traitor, for that’s how the King will view your absence. You must remain our uncle’s loyal, devoted servant if you hope to ascend the throne.”

Stephen propped himself up on the pillows. “You’re as mad as he is. Last night I thought you might be of help, but in the cold light of day I see our cause is lost. The magnates will swear a binding oath to put Maud on the throne. Rome would excommunicate them if they were forsworn.”

“Leave Rome to me.” The Abbot gave him a conspiratorial smile. “You don’t imagine the church or the nobles will actually allow a female to rule England and Normandy, whatever they swear to the King’s face.” He sat on the bed beside his brother. “Already, we have much support in high places. And low—there’s no denying that London loves you.”

Stephen studied his brother’s face. “What did you mean, exactly, when you said earlier that we must remedy the matter?”

The Abbot smiled. “Come, don’t act the innocent.”

“Stop playing games with me, Henry. What you imply is not possible!” He dared not let himself hope that his dream might still be fulfilled.

Henry rose to his feet again. “Anything is possible—in the future. While the King lives we can do nothing but comply with his wishes. However, after he dies? Ah, that will be a different matter. Then we’ll need powerful friends in the right places, sufficient determination, and the courage to take advantage of the propitious moment. When the time is ripe—
carpe diem,
Brother,
carpe diem.
Trust me. Meanwhile say nothing to anyone. Behave as the King’s loyal subject who accepts his will with good grace. Cultivate our friends, make no enemies.”

“You’re very persuasive, as usual. If I do decide to attend the ceremony—” Stephen sighed and sank back against the pillows, knowing he had already decided. His brother’s words had lifted his spirits. Seize the day, Henry had said, and his heart quickened at the prospect. “But the House of Blois takes second place to no one,” he continued. “I won’t swear after Robert.”

“No one has suggested you should, hothead.” The Abbot looked again at the closed door. “Now, listen carefully, and I’ll tell you exactly what must be done.”

A fortnight later the day of the homage ceremony dawned bright and clear. By the time the abbey bells had rung for Sext, all the King’s magnates were gathered in the great hall of Westminster.

Stephen watched Robert of Gloucester, resplendent in a dark blue mantle and indigo tunic, stride purposefully toward him. He started to turn away but Robert caught his arm.