The Fatal Crown (40 page)

While the baby was being washed, his gums and palate cleansed with honey, the tiny body rubbed down with salt before being quickly swaddled in fine linen bands, Aldyth half-carried Maud to the bed where she collapsed against the pillows. Tears of relief and triumph ran down her face. It was over. She had borne the next Duke of Normandy, the future King of England: Stephen’s son.

I
N MID-MARCH, UPON HEARING
the news that Maud had born
A
son, King Henry, who had spent the past eight months in Normandy due to ill health, rallied sufficiently to return to England.

“Well, Nephew, you will be pleased to hear that, by God’s grace, the Countess of Anjou has been safely delivered of a boy,” the King told Stephen the morning he arrived in London.

A hot stab of jealousy knifed through Stephen’s vitals but he kept his face impassive. That should have been our child, Maud’s and mine, he reflected bitterly.

“Excellent news, Sire,” he managed to reply. “A day of rejoicing indeed. I had not realized the babe was due so soon.”

The King, looking older and quite frail, Stephen observed, frowned. “Although the child was born a few weeks early he is healthy and well formed. Reports from the midwife are very encouraging; he should most certainly survive.”

“I’m pleased to hear it,” Stephen said. “Maud—she is also well?”

“Very well. Up and about already.” The King fixed Stephen with an unblinking stare. “The child is the very image of Geoffrey, I’m told.”

Stephen, growing more and more uncomfortable under his uncle’s scrutiny, could not think of an appropriate response.

“As soon as the infant is fit to travel,” the King continued, “Maud and Geoffrey will bring him to Rouen. All nobles will attend me there to swear homage to the future Duke of Normandy and King of England.”

Stephen forced a smile but his blood chilled. Of course. His attention had been so fixed on Maud that for a moment he had lost sight of the fact that the birth of a son meant the succession was now assured. What this would do to his own hopes, he dared not think. He was spared the necessity of a reply when the King’s attention was suddenly claimed by a group of barons crowding around him. As his uncle became engaged in conversation, Stephen took the opportunity to escape.

Walking swiftly to the courtyard, he mounted his horse and, attended by several grooms, made straight for the Tower. As he rode through London, his black mantle streaming out behind him, Stephen’s body began to shiver uncontrollably, and his head felt heavy as an iron helmet. Exactly the symptoms he had experienced last summer.

When he had first heard that Maud was pregnant, Stephen refused to believe it. Consumed by anger and jealousy, he had immediately become suspicious.

Was it possible the child was his?

In his mind, he went over and over the last conversation with Maud in her chamber, reading all manner of significance into every word. He recalled her abrupt departure, with no word to him then or since. Everything pointed to an unusual circumstance. Yet it did not seem possible that his cousin could have dissembled so adroitly. It was totally unlike her open, forthright nature. If Maud carried his child she would have told him, Stephen argued with himself. He would swear an oath on it.

Stephen had listened carefully to the King’s official explanation of why he had sent his daughter back to Anjou in such haste and secrecy: Geoffrey threatened an annulment if his wife was not returned to him immediately; spies at the French court reported that the Count was in league with Louis of France to attack Normandy; even the Pope himself had intervened on Geoffrey’s behalf. As a devoted son of the church, the King insisted, he had been forced to act at Rome’s bidding and protect his interests in Normandy as well. The matter had demanded instant action with no time to consult his council.

As usual, King Henry’s explanations were both reasonable and compelling. Unpopular as the news had been, no one dared question his decision. No one except Stephen, who felt the King had acted only in order to further his own ends—although in this case it was not clear what these ends were. The idea of King Henry being forced to do anyone’s bidding, even the Pope’s, was highly suspect.

After speaking with Robert, who had visited Maud in Angers, Stephen learned that the Count of Anjou was overjoyed by his wife’s pregnancy. It appeared that Maud, hardly pausing for breath, had gone blithely from his bed to Geoffrey’s. Stephen had been devastated; nothing in his life had ever wounded him so deeply. His suspicions that it might be his child seemed groundless. With the King’s comment that the babe was the image of Geoffrey, the last vestige of doubt vanished.

He galloped toward the Tower and as the hours passed, Stephen’s bitterness cooled and the hurt eased. It was not in his nature to hold a grudge—especially against someone he loved as deeply as he loved Maud. He must accept Maud’s departure as unavoidable, prompted by events beyond her control. Undoubtedly she had been reluctant to leave him a message for fear of being discovered.

What remained was a legacy of smoldering resentment against his royal uncle who had sent Maud back to her husband when there was no real need to do so. That same uncle who, but for an obsession with founding his own dynasty, could so easily have made him, Stephen, the heir.

Stephen arrived at the Tower in time for Compline. Inside the chapel he was astounded to see his brother officiating at the service.

“When did he arrive?” Stephen asked Matilda as he knelt beside her.

“Not an hour since. He left Winchester at Matins, and has ridden straight through,” she whispered. “The household think it a great honor to hear Mass by the celebrated Bishop of Winchester. I fear they will never again be content with Father Philippe.”

Observing his brother, Stephen understood why. Tall, crisply elegant, his jeweled rings catching the light from the burning candles, the Bishop’s voice authoritatively resonated throughout the chapel as if God himself inspired him. There was no denying that he cut an impressive figure.

Afterwards, Bishop Henry joined Stephen and Matilda and various other guests for a late supper at the high table in the great hall. The talk was centered on the newly born son of the Countess of Anjou.

“Now that the succession is assured,” said a visiting nobleman from Yorkshire, “I wonder if the barons will more readily accept the Countess of Anjou as their future queen. What is your opinion, Your Grace?”

“The problem, my lord, is not only the Countess,” the Bishop of Winchester replied. He raised his voice so it could be heard the length and breadth of the great hall. “After all, it is misfortune enough to have a queen forced upon us. But the thought of an Angevin king-consort is enough to strike terror and inspire wrath in the heart of any true Norman.”

There was a low murmur of agreement from Stephen’s mesnie sitting at the trestle tables. The guests at the high table nodded their heads in guarded approval.

After the meal, Stephen and Bishop Henry sat alone, two goblets and a pitcher of wine between them.

“With the birth of this son our entire cause is in jeopardy,” Stephen murmured.

Henry gave a mirthless laugh. “Why do you imagine I rode through a chilly night the moment I heard the news from Anjou?”

“But how could you have known yesterday? The King himself only arrived in London this morning!”

The Bishop allowed himself a complacent smile. “I’ve told you before, I make it my business to know everything that goes on in the realm. My informants are well placed.” The smile left his face. “All that aside, we must now determine who will remain loyal to the King’s wishes and who can be persuaded to our cause.” He paused. “Not an easy matter while our uncle lives.”

“God, if only he would die!” The words were uttered with more vehemence than Stephen had intended. Hastily he signed himself.

“Patience, Brother, patience,” Henry said, obviously startled. “What with the King’s present state of health it cannot be long now. Leave the matter in God’s hands.”

“Of course. We agreed to avoid bloodshed. Did I not insist that no harm must come to Maud and the child?”

“The mother and child will be far away in Angers. It is to be hoped that by the time they even hear of the King’s death you will already be an anointed king or close enough that nothing can be done to prevent it.”

“I wish I shared your certainty.” Stephen downed his goblet of wine. “Suppose she
is
in Normandy?”

“Suppose, suppose. God save us, we could both be struck by a bolt of lightning tomorrow if it comes to that.” Henry lowered his voice still further. “I have a plan which is simplicity itself. Although I will remain in Winchester, several of my people will stay close to the King at all times. If he falls critically ill I’ll receive word and notify you, or, should you be with our uncle at the time, you must send word to me. Wait until he is dead, then join me immediately.”

“Simple enough—if he’s in Normandy. But should he be in England—”

Henry tapped a ringed finger against his chin. “That would pose a problem, for the success of my plan depends on the King being in Normandy. However, I suspect he will remain in Rouen to be nearer his grandson.”

“A good possibility, I agree. Go on.”

“Being in Winchester, I’ll have access to the treasury. That’s how our uncle seized power, remember, after he arranged his brother William Rufus’s death. He who controls the treasury controls the realm.”

“You anticipate no opposition to our seizing the treasury?”

“It will be a time of crisis. People will be unsettled and confused. There has never been a time in living memory when the Conqueror or one of his sons has not reigned. Like scattered sheep, commoners and nobles alike will be easily led. And not by a woman or an Angevin shepherd.” Henry put his hand on Stephen’s shoulder. “You will be crowned king by popular demand.”

“Gloucester will uphold his sister’s claim, and FitzCount will remain loyal to the King’s orders,” Stephen said. “Gloucester is a powerful magnate, Brother, and Brian is well respected. Others will follow their lead.”

“Robert will be at his father’s deathbed and, like everyone else, will be caught off guard. The element of surprise is vital and no one suspects our intention.” The Bishop looked intently at his brother. “You must be careful not to arouse anyone’s suspicions. Particularly the Lord of Wallingford. That clever Breton is by far the shrewdest of your friends.”

Stephen nodded.

“Meanwhile,” Henry continued, “we make use of our connections. I will deliver support from the church. You must enlist the aid of the de Beaumont twins, as well as other powerful allies who would give much to see you king. Let it be known—discreetly, of course—that you are not in agreement with the King’s choice of successor. The message will not be lost on those willing to listen.”

A shadow crossed Stephen’s face. “I confess to feeling uneasy, Brother. Robbing Maud’s child of his birthright disturbs me,” he said, giving voice to a thought that had begun to trouble him.

The Bishop gave an impatient sigh. “The counties of Anjou and Maine are the child’s birthright! An inheritance of immense value and prestige, let me remind you. After all, the boy will not be landless or poverty-stricken. You cannot be squeamish about such minor matters. Keep the weal of the realm in mind.”

In the flickering light of the torches, Stephen’s eyes were filled with disquiet. “You see nothing … treasonous in what we do?”

“Treasonous?” Henry looked shocked. “To save the kingdom from Angevin rule is a test of our loyalty! Really, Stephen, sometimes, it seems to me, you lack a certain ruthless quality necessary for—” He searched his brother’s troubled countenance. “What is it that worries you? Do you fear the consequences of breaking your oath to Maud and the King?”

With a shrug and a sigh Stephen turned away without answering.

“Is that all? Benedicte, Brother, I can promise you full absolution. After all, Rome understands these things.”

Six months later in mid-September, Stephen stood in the great hall of the ducal palace in Rouen. The court was assembled to await the arrival of the Count and Countess of Anjou and their infant son. The late afternoon sunshine streamed in through the open doors, turning the freshly picked rushes to a carpet of gold.

“God’s death, but this sticks in the craw, knowing I must swear homage to an Angevin brat,” Waleran of Muelan muttered under his breath.

Robin of Leicester glanced apprehensively toward the King who, clothed in a purple robe, sat in the ducal chair of Normandy mounted on a raised dais. “Hold your tongue, Brother. We have but little choice.”

Waleran cast a dark look toward his monarch. “While King Henry lives we are all under the royal thumb. After his death it is another tale.”

The twins turned instinctively toward Stephen, who gave a brief shake of his head before leaving them to approach Robert of Gloucester, Brian FitzCount, and the Earl of Chester. Waleran made no secret of his resentment toward the Angevins and Stephen wished he would be more discreet.

“It’s time they arrived,” the Earl rumbled. “I do not care to wait upon the Angevins much longer.” He made no attempt to lower his voice, and thrust out his chin in a defiant manner.

“It cannot be long now,” Robert replied with a soothing smile.

The Earl of Gloucester’s eldest daughter, Sybil, had recently married the powerful Ranulf, lord of the wealthy and extensive palatinate of Chester, and Robert always behaved with courtly deference toward his formidable son-in-law.

“I think the good Earl feels somewhat eclipsed by the new arrivals,” Brian FitzCount whispered to Stephen. “It has been my experience that if Ranulf isn’t the center of attention he takes it as a personal affront. Soothe his pride with honeyed words, fawn at his feet, and he will eat out of your hand.”

Stephen chuckled, but his eyes turned speculatively toward the barrel-chested Earl, whose drooping chestnut mustache was the butt of many jokes. He wondered how he might use Brian’s observation to his own advantage. Never an intimate of Ranulf’s, he knew it would be a triumph indeed if he could gain the Earl’s future support. Of course, married to Gloucester’s daughter made it unlikely …