The Fatal Crown (31 page)

Henry left Rome well satisfied. Beneath the beauty and grandeur of the Holy City, he was aware of the intrigue and corruption, but this did not disturb him. He carried away with him to England not only rare manuscripts, gold plate, marble statuary, and a chest of religious artifacts, but the implicit assurance of the Pope that he would support Stephen’s cause, not Maud’s. He no longer needed to find ways to discredit his cousin, Henry realized; she was doing a superb job of it all by herself. Should she continue to pursue her present headstrong course, Stephen’s accession was all but guaranteed.

I
N THE SPRING OF
1129, Stephen and the de Beaumont twins were outside the King’s hunting lodge, preparing to hunt boar in the New Forest, six leagues from Winchester. They were about to mount their horses when, to Stephen’s surprise, a herald rode through the gates of the staked wooden enclosure surrounding the lodge.

“My lords,” said the herald, as he dismounted. “I’ve just come from Westminster to advise you that the King will hold a special court at Windsor in two days’ time and bids you attend.” He looked around him. “Is my Lord of Gloucester not with you?”

“He and the beaters have already gone into the forest, not ten moments ago,” Stephen said.

Waleran of Muelan scowled. “We only arrived last night and now we are expected to return? What is the occasion for this special court?”

“The Countess of Anjou’s return to England,” the herald replied.

Waleran’s face flushed red. “By God’s wounds, does the King call us back from hunting merely in order—”

“You may tell the King that of course we will attend,” Robin interjected smoothly. He turned to his brother. “We will have our day’s hunting and leave tomorrow. That should give us plenty of time.” He dismissed the herald with a smile.

“I cannot believe the King allows that shrew to return,” Waleran muttered. “She should be escorted back to Anjou under armed guard if she won’t comply, horse-whipped by her husband, then retired to a convent to expiate her sins. Her behavior is an insult to the institution of marriage.”

The men mounted their horses and, followed by their squires, trotted out of the palisade.

“Instead he welcomes her like the prodigal daughter,” Waleran continued.

“That is not entirely fair, Muelan,” said Stephen, whose heart had skipped a beat when he heard of Maud’s return. “The lady has been cooling her heels in Normandy for over a year. Remember how furious the King was at first? He swore she could remain there until her bones rotted. I wonder what has changed his mind.”

“The tide of public opinion flows with her, for a change,” Robin offered, “and he is wise enough to see that. Everyone knows the King forced her to the Angevin match and by leaving she has gained a measure of esteem with both barons and commonfolk alike.”

Within moments they were so deep into the forest that it was hard for Stephen to believe he was within a spear’s throw of the hunting lodge.

Waleran ducked his head to avoid a low-hanging branch. “Never did I think to see the day when a woman abandons her lawfully wedded husband—regardless of the circumstance—and men applaud it!”

“Ah, but she left an
Angevin
husband,” Stephen pointed out, exchanging an amused glance with Robin.

Stephen and the de Beaumont twins, dressed alike in linen tunics, soft buckskin breeches, and sleeveless jerkins, broke out of the trees and into a small clearing spread with thistles, brambles, wild roses, and foxglove. Here they reined in their horses. Behind them, on foot, came the grooms and huntsmen, followed by the fewterers leading packs of boarhounds and bloodhounds. The hunting dogs yelped and strained at their leashes.

“Have the beaters seen any boar tracks or heard my Lord of Gloucester’s horn?” Stephen asked Gervase, as his squire rode up beside him.

“No tracks as yet, nor signal from the Earl,” Gervase replied. “Shall I order the dogs unleashed?”

“Not until some scent or trace of this boar can be found,” Stephen said. “We will bide here a moment and see if Robert does not sound his horn.”

Waleran exchanged a significant look with his brother. “This newfound sympathy for Madam Empress, how deeply can it reach? Not deeply enough to make her acceptable as sovereign.”

What intrigue was Waleran up to now, Stephen wondered, keeping his face impassive. “Acceptable or not, the nobles swore an oath to make my cousin queen. I believe you were among them. We are all of us bound by that oath. There the matter rests.”

Waleran shot him a speculative glance. “Is a forced oath binding?”

“Some might deny the oath was forced. The matter is open to question, and is for Holy Church to decide. I haven’t heard that Rome protests the King’s decision. In any case, I refuse to debate theology with you.”

“We speak of the future, Stephen,” Robin said. “After all, King Henry broke his own oath when he married your cousin to Anjou. Not a very good example to set. When he is dead what is to prevent others from changing matters to suit themselves?”

“As affairs now stand, we will have a female ruler with an estranged husband and no son,” Waleran added. “Suppose the King dies tomorrow or next week or even next month?”

“That is the crux of the matter,” Robin said. “Maud has had two husbands and no issue!”

“Come, Stephen,” Waleran persisted, “do you suggest the Conqueror’s great realm be left in the hands of a barren queen?”

The twins looked expectantly at Stephen who remained silent. Such talk bordered on treason, and while Stephen had no mind to rebuke them, it did not seem politic to commit himself, nor did he disagree with a word they said. Indeed, he and his brother had recently had a very similar discussion.

The Bishop believed that years of absolute power had lulled their uncle into complacency, and that he was wrong to assume that through his daughter he would still control his realm from the grave. But Stephen had no intention of repeating this to the twins.

He found he was of two minds about Maud’s return to England. When she had first left to marry the Count of Anjou, Stephen had missed her sorely, more than he would have believed possible. Accustomed to taking his pleasures when and where he found them, Stephen knew he was not able to do without women in general, although he had never imagined that he could not do without any one woman in particular. But Maud had captured more of his heart than any woman before her.

Yet during the three years of Maud’s absence his desire for her had been overshadowed by thoughts of the crown. His brother had made many friends in the Holy See, and was assured that the Curia had no love for a female ruler. When the time came many would be sympathetic to their cause, as the de Beaumont twins were now.

In truth, the thought of Maud’s return was unsettling, Stephen realized. He had no wish to be assailed again by impossible longings, nor to have the even balance of his life disturbed. All memory of their last encounter in her chamber must be ruthlessly crushed. For his peace of mind it would be far, far better if Maud remained safely in Normandy or, better still, return to Anjou.

The piercing sound of a hunting horn reverberated through the forest. Almost in unison the three men lifted their heads, like hounds scenting a quarry.

“Robert,” Stephen announced. “He must have picked up the boar’s tracks.” He lifted an ivory horn chased with gold that swung from his neck on a cord of fine leather, and blew three clear notes.

Gervase reached into two bulging saddlebags at his horse’s side, and held up several weapons for his master’s inspection: a bowstave and quiver of newly fletched birchwood arrows, a Danish ax, and a boar spear. Stephen immediately reached for the spear.

“Is that all you intend to use?” Waleran asked, taking a Danish ax as well as a spear from his own squire.

“This is all I need,” Stephen replied.

“Give me the bow every time.” Robin tested a yew bowstave in his powerful arms.

The sound of the horn came again, closer this time. Hearing the call, the hounds began to bay and yelp, eager to begin the chase.

“Where are my hounds?” Stephen called, his voice tense with excitement.

Gervase brought his master’s three favorite dogs to him, enormous bloodhounds that always accompanied Stephen on his boar-hunting expeditions. Stephen reached down to pat their heads as they began to bark, showing their pointed white teeth and slavering red tongues.

“Good hunting,” Stephen called to the twins, as Gervase unleashed the dogs.

The hounds bounded out of the clearing into the thicket and Stephen rode after them, all thoughts of his cousin banished from his mind, his attention fixed on the sport that lay ahead.

From somewhere behind him, he could hear the twins crashing through the undergrowth, followed by the beaters and baying pack of hounds. The sound of Robert’s horn came again, over to the left. Stephen blew upon his own horn and reined in his horse as the hounds stopped for a moment, seeking the boar’s tracks. After circling a few times the dogs soon discovered where the boar had dug and rooted for food. They bounded forward once more and Stephen followed.

As he rode deeper into the forest, the sound of the baying packs grew fainter and fainter. Turning his head, he saw neither of the twins behind him nor could he now hear their horses. The echo of a horn sounded faintly from another part of the forest. He had outrun the rest of the hunt, Stephen realized, and, save for his dogs, was alone. Somewhere in front of him, the hounds began to bark furiously, and he spurred his mare onward. Within moments he came upon the boar’s lair. Near a spring, in a narrow opening between two uprooted trees, the boar stood erect, ears flattened, enormous feet spread wide, its small bloodshot eyes fixed on the hounds, who looked puny compared to the massive black beast confronting them. One of the dogs, foolishly brave, rushed at the boar who seized it and, shaking the hound furiously in its great jaws, flung it to the ground, its neck broken. Before Stephen could dismount, the boar wheeled around and charged into the thicket where it was lost to view.

Angered now by the death of his hound, Stephen kept up the chase relentlessly, occasionally sounding his horn and hearing a faint echo in reply. Late in the afternoon his dogs finally brought the boar to bay in front of a forest stream. Snorting, the beast bared his huge tusks and dashed toward the two hounds. Stephen jumped from his horse, his supple leather boots landing silently on the moss-green floor of the woods.

“Spawn of the devil, evil seed of a whoreson sow,” Stephen shouted, enraged.

The boar paused at the sound of Stephen’s voice. Grunting, it suddenly swerved from its attack on the hounds. Straight as an arrow, the great beast leapt over a large bramble bush toward this new threat. Stephen’s heart hammered against his ribs. The dry taste of fear clove his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Yet his arms were steady, his mind clear and alert, as he braced himself against a large oak and let the boar come at him head-on. Holding the spear straight before him, his legs slightly bent, Stephen tensed for the impact. Every sinew of his body, every part of him was concentrated on the deadly black shape hurtling toward him. Lifting both arms, he used all his strength to strike at the boar’s breast. The point of the spear drove through the black hide, pierced the heart, and came out at the shoulder blade. The weight of the impact almost tore his arms from their sockets. The boar squealed in its death agony, but the momentum of its charge propelled the body forward, straight at Stephen, who let go the spear and quickly pivoted aside. As the animal crashed past him into the oak he could smell its rank odor, see the glaze of death film the vicious eyes. The boar tottered and slowly fell to the ground.

The two hounds rushed in toward the boar while Stephen wiped his sweating brow and flexed his wrenched shoulder muscles. His body felt drained, his hands were trembling slightly as he leaned heavily against the sturdy oak. Alone in the dark woods, with only the dogs and the dead boar, he was able to fully savor the surge of intense fulfillment that always accompanied any victory—whether in battle or the chase. He had bested a worthy opponent in a fair fight, and he was at one with himself and the lush green world surrounding him.

After a few moments, he bent to examine the dead animal. It was an enormous full-grown male, in its prime, with curved tusks as long as his forearm. The two hounds leapt up on him with muddied paws, wagging their tails, their tongues hanging. Stephen patted their heads and necks, their soft jowls, murmuring words of praise. Putting one foot against the beast’s side, Stephen pulled out his spear, the point dripping blood. He wiped the spear against his buckskin breeches, then blew several times on his horn to let the hunting party know his whereabouts. Drawing a large hunting knife from his belt, he cut two large chunks of warm meat from the boar’s haunch, and flung them to the hounds as their reward.

Whistling a tavern tune as he cut out the boar’s tusks, Stephen decided he would hang these trophies of his prowess in the great hall of the Tower.

He also decided to avoid his cousin Maud as much as possible, and not expose himself to any possible recurrence of the incident of three years ago. With each passing year, as the King’s health continued to fail, he drew ever nearer his goal. Why take undue risks for a passion that must prove futile as well as transitory? After all, what was a woman to set against a crown ?

I
N MAY OF THAT
same year, 1129, Maud set sail for England, landing at Southampton after a rough channel crossing. She was accompanied by Brian, who had been sent by her father to bring her to London. After more than a year in the ducal palace in Rouen, during which time her infuriated father had refused to let her come to England and ordered her to return to Geoffrey, Maud had almost despaired. Then, like a miracle, had come the reprieve.

Of course, she had contributed to the miracle, Maud thought with an inward smile. In a constant barrage of letters written to old friends in Rome, she had made it a point to ask about the possibility of obtaining an annulment from the Count of Anjou. She was sure her father would come to hear of it, and simply to prevent further mischief on her part, if for no other reason, she expected him to relent and allow her to come to England.