The Fatal Crown (32 page)

Now, followed by a procession of litters, carts and sumpter horses, Maud was determined to reach London before Vespers. By the time she neared the outskirts of the city, she had been riding for almost twelve hours. Her body ached, but she did not care. She was back in England at last, and each league brought her closer to Stephen.

Acutely aware of everything around her, Maud eagerly drank in the sights, scents, and sounds of her native land: the shoots of new grass, impossibly green and fresh, a pale blue sky fleeced with puffs of white clouds, a May breeze blowing through the hawthorn carrying the aroma of sweet William, marjoram, and gillyflowers; the gentle chorus of linnet, finch, and lark. For the first time in three years, she experienced a surge of pure joy.

At last they reached Westminster Castle. Maud had just dismounted when the Bishop of Salisbury appeared on the steps of the keep.

“Good evening to you, Madam. God be thanked you’ve had a safe journey. The King wishes to see you when you’ve refreshed yourself,” he said, then added softly, “I would not keep him waiting if I were you.”

Filled with dread, for she knew the King must still be enraged, Maud removed her dust-stained clothes, washed herself in a tub of hot water, then put on a plain gray gown and darker gray tunic, omitting all jewelry.

A page knocked on her chamber door and led Maud to the council room in the southeastern wing of the castle. As she entered, the King looked her over without comment, then motioned to her to sit on a stool opposite him. The Bishop of Salisbury, attended by a cleric on a high stool, stood behind the King.

Maud was shocked to see how greatly her father had aged since she had last seen him. Despite the mildness of the May morning, he was seated near a charcoal brazier, with a fur-lined cloak wrapped about his body. His sallow face was deeply lined, and his black hair heavily streaked with white. A slight tremor rocked the hand that held a pewter goblet of mulled wine.

“Pour the Countess of Anjou some wine, and offer her honey cakes,” he said to a hovering servitor. “Then leave us.”

Even his voice had changed, his speech slower and more measured. Only the crafty black eyes remained the same.

As she hungrily devoured two of the honey cakes, and sipped the wine, Maud felt the King’s gaze boring into her. Ripples of apprehension coursed through her body.

“If you believe that dressing like a penitent will deceive me, you are even more of a fool than I thought,” were his first biting words to her.

Maud, attempting to assume a martyred expression, folded her hands in an attitude of prayer, and kept her head down.

“False repentance ill becomes you, Daughter.” The King gave her a withering look. “Did you know that the Count and Countess of Anjou are the butt of countless jests in all the courts of Europe? I hear Louis of France has two fighting cocks that he has named Maud and Geoffrey, and it is his great pleasure to set them against each other, placing wagers on who will win. As you are responsible for our good name being dragged through all the filth and muck my enemies can conjure up, what have you to say for yourself?”

With half-closed eyes, the King listened in silence as Maud attempted to paint a grim picture of her sorry life in Anjou. She dwelt heavily on Geoffrey’s inability to fully consummate the marriage, and described in detail her humiliating exit from Angers, matters she had already conveyed in her letters.

When she had finished, Henry opened his eyes. “Were you aware that only a fortnight ago, your husband managed to get a child, a son mind, on some kitchen slut in Angers?”

Maud flinched as if she had been struck. “I had not heard that. Naturally the girl would claim Geoffrey is the father,” she countered. “Who can attest to the truth?”

The King shrugged. “No one, of course, but rumor has it the babe resembles him. That child,” he said in a venomous tone, “should have been your son and my grandson!”

An image of the two young girls in Geoffrey’s chamber passed through Maud’s mind, and she flushed at the memory.

“Since you left, your husband cavorts all over Anjou, tumbling anything in skirts, telling all who will listen that he is well rid of the Norman shrew!”

“And you allow him to make mock of me?” she asked, her voice trembling with anger.

“Come, Madam, would you have me declare war on Anjou to save your pride? You’ve brought this disgrace on yourself.” He paused. “You don’t seem to have much luck with your husbands, neither of whom was either able or willing to honor your bed.”

Crimson with mortification, a sudden image of Stephen’s manhood, rock-hard against her body, flashed before Maud’s eyes. She opened her mouth to hotly contest his words, then bit her lips until she drew blood.

“And another thing, Madam, there will be no further talk of annulment.” His hands suddenly clutched his heart.

Both Maud and the Bishop moved to go to him, but he waved them away. “Oh yes, I know of your correspondence with Rome. I know everything that goes on! Now, let me warn you, if the subject of annulment is brought up ever again—to anyone—I swear, before God and all His Saints, that I will shut you up in a convent.” He raised his hand. “Roger, you are a witness to this.”

A convent! Maud had heard of women who, displeasing their families, were immured in a convent, never to see the light of day again. It must be an empty threat, she thought. He would not permit such disruption of all his plans.

“You would not do it,” she relied with more bravado than she felt, “for then I would not be queen.”

“There are those among my magnates who would be far from displeased should you be removed as heir,” the King said softly, “and greatly relieved to have my nephew, Stephen, rule in your stead. You think yourself indispensable? On the contrary, Madam, on the contrary.” He cocked his head to one side. “She doesn’t believe me, Roger.”

A host of memories rushed into her mind. Alix’s story of the blinded grandchildren; the Emperor telling her how her father had arranged for the death of his brother William Rufus and the imprisonment of his oldest brother Robert.

“Oh, I do believe you, Sire, I do,” she whispered. How could she have doubted him for a moment?

The King leaned toward her, his eyes cruel and hard as flint. “Very wise. Do you think I will allow you to destroy my efforts to join Normandy and Anjou? Your headstrong behavior is not going to ruin an alliance I have worked so hard to bring about. It’s my belief that, in time, Geoffrey will repent of his foolishness, and request your return.” He paused for breath. “I have sent messages to King Fulk in Jerusalem asking him to intercede with his son. When Geoffrey comes to his senses, you will go back to Anjou like a dutiful wife. Unless I have your agreement to abide by my wishes I will carry out my threat. Is that clear?”

Maud stared at him as a rabbit might gaze at a stoat. “Yes,” she croaked, thoroughly frightened now. “I agree.”

“Very well, but I will keep a close watch on you, Madam, make no mistake.” He sat back and regarded her. “Now, there must be no more fuel added to an already raging fire. Say nothing of these matters to anyone. You’re here for a visit, with your husband’s blessing, and anything heard to the contrary is gossip and rumor, put about by our enemies.”

“I understand, Sire.”

“The only reason I allowed your return is that the barons seem well disposed toward you for leaving Anjou, fools that they are.” He reflected for an instant. “It may well be time for them to swear their oath of allegiance to you once again.” He gazed at her without expression. “We must do what we can to salvage something from the wreckage you have created.”

Maud bowed her head. She had never seen her father so angry and, for the first time, was well and truly afraid that he would carry out his threat.

“You have my leave to go.”

Chastened and subdued, Maud walked back to her chamber. She had not expected such a violent reaction. Fortunately, she suspected it was likely to be some time before Geoffrey came to his senses. Eventually, she admitted to herself, unless she wished to spend her years in a convent, she would have to go back to Anjou and fulfill her obligations, no matter how distasteful. In truth, she admitted to herself, losing the crown was even more painful to her than a life with the Count of Anjou. Meanwhile, she would live only in the moment and give no thought to the future.

The king moved back the date of his special court, to be held at Windsor, and there, Maud knew, she would be sure to see Stephen. The day before the court was to be held, Maud, in company with Queen Alix and their respective ladies, rode the ten leagues to Windsor. Stephen, with his wife and children, had already arrived.

The following day dawned fair and clear. After a solemn Mass in the chapel, at which she caught only a brief glimpse of Stephen’s back, Maud hurried to her chamber to prepare herself for the feast which was to start just before noon.

As she watched her women sort through her clothes, she half regretted her hasty decision to leave most of her clothes in Anjou. Finally Maud decided on a gown she recently had made in Rouen. The gown was a pale green gossamer silk shot with gold thread. The tunic, made of a darker green, was girdled at the waist with a delicate gold clasp. A narrow collar of gold studded with pearls graced her slender neck. Her pearly-colored gauze veil was held in place by a narrow circlet of gold she had borrowed from Alix.

Maud looked in the mirror held up for her inspection, trying to see herself through Stephen’s eyes. The shimmering green brought out the rich cinnamon of her coiled hair, gave a silver sparkle to her eyes and a flush of color to her creamy skin.

Would he still find her fair? she wondered anxiously.

“I assume the Count of Mortain will be at the feast,” Aldyth said, eyeing Maud with disapproval.

Maud colored, refusing to meet Aldyth’s eye. Throwing a black velvet cloak over her shoulders, she descended to the great hall of Windsor Castle to find the feast already in progress.

Jostled by running pages and servitors, she threaded her way past the trestle tables until she reached the high table. The King and Alix, Robert of Gloucester, his wife, Mabel, and their two eldest sons, Brian and his wife, Stephen and Matilda, the de Beaumont twins and their respective wives, the Bishops of Salisbury and London, as well as other notables sat at the long table.

A place had been kept for her between Robert and her father, and she squeezed between them. The King, stuffing himself with stewed lampreys, and ignoring Alix’s admonitions not to eat this favored delicacy, acknowledged her presence with a brief nod. Brian smiled at her, while his wife, plain and dumpy, whom Maud had never met, stared at her with timid curiosity.

“I’m so pleased to see you, Cousin,” Matilda called gaily from farther down the table.

Maud smiled weakly, noting how pretty Stephen’s wife looked tonight, her gentle face radiating goodwill. Her heart pounding and her throat dry, Maud slowly shifted her gaze to Stephen, certain his eyes would be upon her. To her disappointment, he had his back to her while talking to the twins. She saw Matilda whisper something in his ear. Almost with reluctance, it seemed to Maud, Stephen looked briefly in her direction. His eyes, cool and distant, were those of a stranger. After a perfunctory smile, he immediately resumed his conversation with the twins, his head, turned resolutely away from her.

Although no one was looking, Maud felt as if every eye had witnessed her rejection. She had such an intense feeling of anguish that she thought she would suffocate. Her heart was like a stone in her breast and her eyes blurred. Sweet Marie, what had happened? How had she offended him?

“Are you unwell? You’re not eating.” It was Robert’s concerned voice.

Looking down she saw that her trencher had been piled high with food and she had not even noticed. If she took so much as one bite, she thought, she would be sick. Forcing a smile, she pushed the food about. By a supreme effort of will, she managed to get through the feast and the various festivities that followed. As minstrels followed jugglers, she sat like a figure carved in marble, answering questions but originating nothing. Never once in the hours that followed did Stephen glance in her direction or address a single word to her.

Later that night, long after the feast was over, Maud lay sleepless in the chamber she shared with Aldyth and her women. Over and over she asked herself: Why was Stephen treating her with such coldness? Why had he changed? She could not, would not, accept that he no longer cared for her. Until now, Maud had not realized how desperately she needed to be with her cousin again, if only to share a small part of him. What else did she have? Her life lay in ruins: Her marriage was a disaster; her father resented her; and even the prospect of attaining the throne seemed worlds away.

The bells rang for Matins. Midnight already. She had been tossing for hours. Unable to lie in bed a moment longer, Maud rose, pulled on a chemise and tunic against the night chill, and walked over to the narrow casement window that overlooked a section of the courtyard. It was deserted at this hour except for a pair of guards strolling by, and a lone figure walking back and forth. Something about the restless gait, the set of the shoulders, a shaft of moonglow highlighting the tawny head, made Maud catch her breath. Stephen. Without a moment’s hesitation, she slipped on shoes, threw a mantle over her tunic, and tiptoed out of the chamber. Whatever the outcome, she had to see him, she had to find out the truth.

S
TEPHEN, PACING BACK AND
forth across the courtyard, saluted the watch on their rounds of the castle. Unable to sleep, he had left the chamber he shared with Matilda and his children to seek the cool night air, hoping it would clear his head. The hours he had spent at the feast were among the worst he had ever endured, forced to witness Maud’s initial shock at his calculated coldness, then the subsequent cloud of misery that settled over her. It had been unnecessarily cruel, he realized, and he owed her an explanation for his behavior. Far better to tell her the truth: It was highly dangerous to pursue a liaison—both of them were married, they could have no future together, the risk was great, and the rewards transistory. Not to mention the fact that she was his first cousin. He could not, of course, tell her of his decision to allow nothing and no one to interfere with his reach for the crown.