The Fatal Crown (50 page)

“In the event that I do not choose Henry, another candidate has been highly recommended to me, one from Normandy. Theobald, Abbot of Bee.”

“An excellent choice,” said Matilda, obviously surprised. “He is a saintly prelate, a true man of God. Did Waleran of Muelan make the suggestion? I believe he is a lay patron of the Abbey of Bee.”

“Yes, it was Waleran,” Stephen said, wondering if there was anything she did not know.

“I’m certain you will make the right decision,” Matilda told him.

Stephen walked over to the window slit, wishing he felt as certain. Unaccountably, he suddenly remembered the time he had disguised himself as a priest to visit Maud in secret. His eyes sought the closed door at the end of the solar. In that very room, he thought with an unexpected stab of anguish and remorse.

“I’m told Theobald of Bee is free from ambition, unlikely to meddle in the affairs of the kingdom. An unworldly prelate who would endure the fires of hell rather than dishonor his office.” He paused. “But I have not yet decided, you understand. I must think on it,” Stephen said, his eye still fixed on the closed door.

H
ENRY, BISHOP OF WINCHESTER,
was strolling along the well-kept paths of his garden at Wolvesey Castle, located just outside the walls of Winchester, when a cleric brought him word of the Archbishop of Canterbury’s death. As he examined his collection of antique marble statuary set against a background of dark green ivy, he was unable to repress a sense of elation. Now, at last, he would head the church in England, and, through his brother, rule the realm as well. His lifelong ambition was about to be fulfilled.

The Bishop’s first action was to write a long missive to the Pope, assuring the pontiff there would be no difficulty in the transition from one See to another; then he left for Canterbury to attend the funeral.

He was surprised, but not concerned, when Stephen said, nothing to him about the vacant See, assuming that his brother thought it unseemly to bring the matter up at the late Archbishop’s funeral. It was not as if there were any immediate urgency about the matter; everyone expected him to be the next Archbishop, and there were certainly no other candidates to worry about.

After two months passed with no word, Henry sent a courteous dispatch to his brother asking what was being done about the vacant See of Canterbury. He received a brief reply, pleasant but noncommittal, asking him to be patient. The Bishop began to feel uneasy. Why the delay? When another six weeks passed with no word from Stephen, Henry debated with himself over what course to follow.

It was not until mid-April before Henry was able to pay a visit to London, duties in both Winchester and Glastonbury preventing him from leaving immediately. He found Stephen at Westminster in a small stone chamber that King Henry had used for his administrative duties.

“Have you forgotten our agreement? Why have you not appointed me Archbishop?” he demanded of Stephen without preamble. “You owe your present position to me, don’t forget that. Is this how you show your gratitude?”

Stephen flushed, then looked sullen. “I’m sick to death of being perpetually reminded that I’m in your debt. Everyone wants something of me; I’m being pulled in too many directions at once.” He paused, avoiding Henry’s eye. “The difficulty is Matilda. She thinks you lack … spiritual values. ‘Too worldly’ was the phrase she used.”

Henry was nonplussed. “What is that supposed to mean? And what does Matilda’s opinion signify? I had not thought you ruled by the distaff!” His eyes narrowed. “You’re telling me less than the truth, Brother. If you don’t act soon, I will demand the Pope intervene.” He left the chamber in a huff.

When no word was forthcoming by May, Henry, swallowing his pride, forced himself to write to the Holy Father demanding that an Archbishop be chosen. Pope Innocent, already upset with Stephen over the delay, agreed, and promised to send over to England a Papal Legate who would convene a council of bishops, abbots, and other leading churchmen to meet no later than the end of the year. By the time the messengers had gone to Rome and came back again it was early September. The Papal Legate arrived in late October. Then it took another month before everyone could be notified and gathered together.

The council was finally held at Westminster in December of the year 1138. During the last week of the month Henry, who had attended, was unexpectedly forced to leave the council for a short time in order to conduct an ordination in Winchester. He was in the midst of the ordination ceremony when he received word that during his brief absence an Archbishop of Canterbury had been elected: Theobald, Abbot of Bee in Normandy.

Almost incoherent with rage, Henry abandoned the ceremony and despite the freezing cold left in the middle of the night for London. I will never forgive Stephen this treachery, he vowed, never in this world or the next.

When he reached Westminster, half frozen, just after Prime, Henry immediately went into the great hall where he found Stephen breaking the night’s fast with the de Beaumont twins and his recently appointed commander of mercenaries, the Fleming, William of Ypres. Clad in a peacock blue tunic under a fur-lined mantle, William was small and dapper, with long curling black hair and a trim mustache. He returned Henry’s curt greeting with an arrogant stare from his dark eyes.

“I would see you alone, and at once,” Henry said to his brother, his voice tight with anger.

“First break your fast,” Stephen replied with a forced smile, indicating a round wheaten loaf and a pitcher of ale. His face had paled at Henry’s unexpected entrance. “You look chilled to the bone. Why not warm yourself by the fire.”

“I’m well enough. I must insist we talk now.”

“Speak then, Brother. I’m among loyal friends. We have no secrets from one another.” Stephen smiled at William and the twins, but his eyes were wary.

“Friends?” Henry gave an ugly laugh. “You don’t know the meaning of friendship, no, or of loyalty either. How you have served me is how you will serve these poor fools.”

Stephen’s smile vanished. “There’s no need to insult me,” he said, on a note of defiance.

“A tooth for a tooth, Stephen,” Henry hissed. “Have I not just been dealt the greatest of insults at your hand ? You promised me the See of Canterbury! How could you prove so faithless?”

Stephen’s eyes darted about the hall as if seeking escape. “The council elected Theobald of Bee, the only one upon whom everyone agreed. He … has an admirable character, true humility, and is devoted to Holy Church.”

“Do you imply that I have none of these qualities?” Henry cried, his face contorted with rage. “That simple-natured old man, who can barely scrawl his own name, what has he ever accomplished ? I find it strange indeed that during my absence Theobald of Bee’s election is rushed through in the most underhanded manner. Without your connivance he would never have been chosen!”

Stephen’s face grew dark red. Waleran of Muelan arched his brows as he exchanged a look of complicity with his brother Robin, adding yet another spark to Henry’s fury. The Bishop knew only too well that Waleran had always resented his influence over Stephen; it would not surprise him to discover that Waleran was in part responsible for his downfall. Yes, by God, of course! He had almost forgotten! Waleran was connected with the Abbey of Bee in Normandy, one of their lay patrons, in fact. He would have pushed forward Theobald as a tame Archbishop, a man without ambition and easily controlled.

“You will live to regret what you have done,” Henry said in an icy voice. “I would to God I had never helped you to the throne, for I fear the time will come when we shall all rue the day you were crowned king.”

Rising, William of Ypres pointed an accusing finger at Henry. “You speak treason, my lord bishop,” he said in his heavy Flemish accent.

Henry looked down his long nose as if he smelled something unpleasant. “You dare to accuse me of treason? What are you but a bastard Flemish adventurer, devoted to violence and intrigue, a rogue who sells his services to whoever pays the most gold.” He sniffed contemptuously. “What better place to seek employment than at Stephen’s court! Two rogues cut from the same pattern!”

William’s hand shot to the dagger swinging at his belt. Outraged, the twins jumped to their feet. With a look of disgust, Henry turned on his heel and stalked out of the hall. Stephen suddenly leapt from his chair to run after him.

“Leave the Bishop alone,” he called over his shoulder as the three men started to follow. “If you lay a finger on him you will have me to deal with.”

Henry was out the door before Stephen caught up with him.

“Wait! Let me explain,” Stephen began.

“It’s too late for explanations,” Henry replied, the bitterness rising in his throat like bile. “Canterbury has always been my dream. You have taken it from me. Do you expect me to forgive you?” How typical of his brother to destroy him with one hand, then try to woo him back with the other. Even when he had done you an ill turn Stephen could not bear that you should hold it against him. Jesu!

“I did what I thought best. You had become—too overbearing, leaving me no voice of my own.”

Henry snorted. “Let me remind you of Matthew 7: ‘Why do you see the speck that is in your brother’s eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye?’”

Stephen bit his lip. “I will ask the Pope to appoint you Papal Legate,” he said. “You will be Rome’s representative in England. Innocent will be happy to comply. That makes the Archbishop of Canterbury subordinate to you.” He put a tentative hand on Henry’s shoulder.

The Bishop savagely shook off the hand. “Am I to be consoled with that? Theobald will be head of the church in England!” His voice throbbed with mingled anger and hurt.

“Oh God, what have I done,” Stephen whispered. “Brother, I—”

“I’m no longer your brother; I am your enemy. Why did you do it to me? What is the true reason?” Before he could stop himself the cry had been torn from Henry’s heart, revealing the depths of his anguish.

White-faced, tears welling up in his gold-flecked eyes, Stephen opened his mouth to speak, but no words came forth. Clearly, he did not know why, Henry realized, or could not bring himself to say. For the space of a heartbeat, Henry looked deeply into his brother’s eyes and, for the first time, recognized the bitter truth: the years of unexpressed resentment and envy which had begun in Blois when Stephen was a child, despised by his mother, outcast from his family, the black sheep constantly compared to the brilliant younger brother who excelled in all that he did.

Shattered, Henry left the great hall of Westminster. At last he understood, but knowledge did not reconcile him to betrayal. Henceforth, Stephen must rely on the dubious counsel of his Flemish captain and the twins. He would learn soon enough, and to his cost, the consequences of his faithless act.

E
ARLY IN THE NEW
year, 1139, Stephen, still totally estranged from his brother, underwent a series of major setbacks: Robert of Gloucester, visiting his estates in Normandy, sent him a formal declaration of defiance, naming the King usurper and refusing to honor him any longer as his overlord. As if Robert’s defection were the signal for rebellion, various uprisings sprang up all over southwest England. Following this came disquieting rumors that Robert and Geoffrey of Anjou had made common cause and, along with Maud, were secretly plotting to invade England with the help of various nobles who still remained loyal to the late King Henry’s wishes.

On the heels of this news, the treasurer, Roger of Salisbury’s nephew, informed Stephen that the treasury was so depleted that he would not be able to pay, among others, William of Ypres’ Flemish mercenaries. Beset by conflicting advice from the de Beaumont twins, William of Ypres, and the Bishop of Salisbury, Stephen did not know which way to turn.

After much hesitation he finally decided to besiege Robert’s stronghold at Bristol as a means of retaliation. No sooner had he arrived than news came that King David of Scotland had again broken the peace, marching across the Scottish border to invade Yorkshire. Abruptly abandoning Bristol, Stephen made for Yorkshire, but was diverted by an uprising of rebels at Shropshire. In truth, he could have marched in almost any direction and found an insurrection to subdue.

Fortunately, by the time he reached the Midlands the Scottish king was already fleeing back to the border, put to rout by the stouthearted men of Yorkshire. Wearily, Stephen began the long ride back to Westminster, dreading the problems that lay in store for him. He did not know what action to take against Robert, how to prevent more uprisings, or, most urgently, what to do about the dwindling treasury. These were exactly the sort of crisis situations his brother was so adept at handling, he realized with a stab of regret. If he had not acted so precipitously, Henry would still be an ally instead of an enemy.

An icy shiver of apprehension ran through him as he pondered the rumors of a possible invasion. Such an event, while unlikely, could not be discounted. Jesu, all the troubles he had endured up to now would be as nothing if Maud and Robert of Gloucester landed on England’s shores.

In September of that same year Stephen was at Oxford Castle for an emergency meeting of his council. After much debate and soul-searching, he and his council decided upon a momentous step: to debase the coinage. He was being forced to it by empty coffers, Stephen argued with himself as he sat alone in the great hall of Oxford Castle staring moodily into a goblet of mullet wine.

After all, was it his fault the treasury was empty? Hadn’t he done his best to keep it filled? He was unpleasantly reminded of the incident of last June when William of Ypres and Waleran of Muelan had convinced him that his justiciar, the Bishop of Salisbury, was secretly plotting against the crown with the Countess of Anjou and the Earl of Gloucester. Only the desperateness of the situation had persuaded him to seize Roger’s considerable wealth and castles. The elderly prelate and members of his family had been imprisoned and roughly treated—not on his orders, he told himself. By the time he was released Roger had become mortally ill and now lay near death.