The Fatal Crown (68 page)

Since then she had received no news, nor was there any sign of Robert or his forces. No doubt Geoffrey, whose main concern had always been Normandy, had refused aid, callously abandoning her to an uncertain fate.

In the early days of the siege Maud had cherished the vain hope that Stephen might allow her to leave—as he had at Arundel. But no trace of that former chivalry was forthcoming. In fact, she had not caught so much as a glimpse of him. This time, Maud realized, he was bent on defeating her.

Aware that the castle would soon be starved into submission if help did not arrive, all Stephen had to do was wait like a giant bird of prey until the quarry fell helpless into his hands. The war would be over; she would be his prisoner. He could shut her up for the rest of her life, in chains if he chose. Had she not done as much to him? The driving force of her life would be thwarted. Never would she wear England’s crown, never would her son inherit the throne. The prospect was so horrifying Maud felt she would rather die than endure it.

“Lady?”

Maud turned toward the open door. It was the captain of the garrison, his arm in a sling from a wound he had received as a result of a fireball thrown over the walls. She beckoned him inside.

“The cook has just slain the last milk cow,” he began. “After we have eaten her there will be no more fresh meat.”

“Is there any salted meat?”

“No. After these two scullions died last week, and a score of other folk were seized with violent pains and a bloody flux, the cook threw out all the meat in the barrels. There’s too much sickness as it is.”

Nodding wearily, Maud shuddered at the dreadful images his words had evoked. Only chance had prevented her from eating the tainted meat.

“The larder’s now empty, fuel is almost totally gone,” the captain continued, “and there’s another problem as well. The cook says the rats are increasing in number, which means there’s so little food they have emerged from hiding to seek sustenance. I’ve seen them, Madam. They’re bold creatures, some big as puppies. One bit the hand of a child, almost severing a finger.” He paused, a look of uncertainty on his face.

Maud knew he held something back. “What else?”

He looked away, unwilling to meet her eyes. “Talk is widespread that we must surrender lest all the inhabitants perish. The last thing I want, Lady, is for you to fall into enemy hands, but I have a duty to the folk in the castle as well.”

“We both do. The matter weighs heavily on my mind. But I have not given up hope that my half-brother may still arrive to aid us, or my Lord of Wallingford.” The words sounded hollow in her own ears.

The captain shifted his weight from one booted foot to another, both wrapped in rags for warmth. “What chance does the Lord of Wallingford stand against a force of one thousand men? If Earl Robert were able to help you surely he would have done so by now. No, Madam, we must face the facts. We cannot depend on outside aid.” He paused. “Certain leading citizens who sought refuge in the castle when the town was put to the torch have been stirring up trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

The captain swallowed. “They blame you for their plight. They claim that King Stephen destroyed their city only to get at you. Why should their lives be further ruined for a woman who has caused nothing but grief and strife from the moment she landed on England’s shores.”

Maud stared at him, his words like knives tearing into her heart. “They hate me too,” she said slowly, “just like the folk in London.”

Maud knew time had run out. She could no longer delude herself that help would be forthcoming. Hateful as it was, there was only one step she could take. Drawing a deep breath, she forced herself to say the words she had promised never to utter.

“There must be an end to hardship for these good people. Surrender the castle.”

“God save you, Lady.” The captain knelt on one knee and bowed his head. “Thank you.”

Maud turned her back lest he see what this decision had cost her.

“I ask a day’s respite,” she said at last, struggling for composure. “Only a day to seek a way out of this coil. With God’s help, I may find one.”

The captain got to his feet. “Of course. By Sext tomorrow I will send to the King. But it would be politic to tell the folk that you have agreed to surrender.”

Maud gave him a bitter smile. “For my own safety you had better tell them.”

When he had gone, Maud walked back to the window slit. The frozen world outside was unchanged, in sharp contrast to the upheaval taking place within her. More painful even than her decision to surrender was the realization of how blind she had been to the feelings and needs of the people in the castle. The very people she intended to rule, yet she had no more idea of what went on in their hearts and minds than if she were hundreds of leagues away. She had thought only of her pride and not giving in to her cousin.

As she stared out the window, Maud thought something moved against the vast expanse of whiteness but could not be sure. Were her eyes playing tricks on her? No, something had moved. She could barely make out a vague shape covered in snow making its way across the frozen ground. In a moment it was lost to view. She gazed thoughtfully at the icy expanse outside the walls, at the river frozen fast. The white figure had been hardly visible to the eye. White against white was virtually unnoticeable. The seed of an idea took root in her mind.

An hour later Maud descended to the guard room.

“How many leagues exactly is Wallingford from Oxford?” she asked the captain of the garrison.

“Thirty leagues perhaps,” he said. “I’m not sure.”

“Is there a village or hamlet in between?” Maud asked, dismayed.

“Not that I know of.”

“Begging your pardon, Captain,” a young soldier offered, “but I’m from around these parts and there do be a monastery at Abingdon, no more than eighteen leagues away, and a hamlet close by.”

“Yes, you’re right,” the captain confirmed. “I’d quite forgotten about Abingdon.”

“Eighteen leagues!” Maud smiled. “That might be just possible. I think I may have found the way out I spoke of earlier, Captain. Not without risk to be sure, but far better than being taken captive! Let me tell you what I have in mind.”

That night, shivering in the frosty December air, Maud felt her heart race with anticipation and fear. She looked down at herself, clothed from head to toe in a white sheet that completely covered her fur-lined cloak, then cast a glance at the three soldiers who would accompany her, also draped in white. Once on the ground they would be indistinguishable against the snow—or so she hoped. One-half of Stephen’s army occupied Oxford itself. The other half lay camped in the frozen meadows across the ice-bound river. If the enemy did not spot them descending the walls, they had a slim chance of making their way unnoticed through the armed camp. Better to be captured trying to escape than cowering inside the castle.

“The enemy will be changing the guard at Matins and there is always confusion then,” the captain said to Maud. “You’ll have less chance of being observed. The bells should ring by the time you reach their camp.” He looked up just as the clouds passed over the moon. “You must leave now while it’s dark. Quickly.”

As Maud watched, one of the soldiers, white linen bed sheets knotted strongly around his waist, was lowered slowly from the walls to the riverbank below. He reached the ground in safety, then untied the sheets, which were hoisted up again.

“Are you ready, Lady?” asked one of the soldiers.

When Maud nodded, he tied the sheets securely around her waist.

“May God speed your journey,” said the captain. “I pray you reach Abingdon in safety.”

“Remember to give me until Sext before surrendering the castle. I shall not forget your loyalty.”

“Nor I your courage, Madam.” He slipped something hard into Maud’s gloved hand. Her fingers closed over the hilt of a slender knife. “Should you need to protect yourself,” he whispered.

Grateful, she slipped the knife into the leather bag that swung at her belt under the cloak and sheets.

As two of the soldiers lifted Maud carefully over the wall, her heart leapt. Slowly she sank lower and lower until at last her feet touched the ground. Then the soldier untied the sheets and moments later the two other soldiers joined her. The captain waved his hand in farewell, pulled up the sheets, then disappeared.

Silently the four figures climbed down the bank. They crossed over the frozen river, crouching as low as they dared, slipping and sliding on the ice. The wind rose to an unearthly shriek, stinging Maud’s cheeks and freezing her lips. Finally they reached the farther shore on the edge of the enemy camp.

Apart from the campfires gleaming through the darkness there was no sign of a living soul. Maud and her companions moved cautiously toward the enemy tents. Their footsteps fell silently upon the freshly fallen snow; their labored breath rose like puffs of smoke on the frosty air.

They had almost passed through the enemy camp when the bells rang for Matins, followed by a blast of trumpets. Maud stopped motionless in her tracks.

“Changing of the guard,” one of her companions reminded her. “It will be over soon.”

The four of them waited breathlessly, listening to the sound of voices coming toward them through the snow. One of her companions grabbed Maud’s hand, drawing her up against a pavilion. Flattening her body against the tent, she waited, trembling.

“I tell ye I saw something move just a moment ago,” a voice said, coming from around the corner of the pavilion.

“You’re daft, lad. Ye can’t see your hand in front of your face in this snow.”

There was a laugh. The voices grew fainter, then vanished.

“Best to move on, Lady,” one of the soldiers cautioned.

Heads down against the driving wind, they threaded their way through the remaining tents. They had reached the last line of pavilions when a lone sentry almost ran into them. He stepped back quickly.

“Who goes?” He pointed his long spear at them, then gasped in terror, signing himself. “May God have mercy! Ghosts abroad!”

Maud was rooted to the ground, too frightened to move. The guard approached, took the point of his spear and thrust back the white sheet, then the hood of her cloak.

“Holy Mother, it do be the Countess of Anjou,” he breathed, the shock evident in his voice.

Two of the soldiers closed round her protectively, while the third fumbled for something under his white covering. No one spoke. Maud’s hand reached under the sheet and cloak for the knife.

“Guard? Is aught amiss?” The familiar voice, heavy with sleep, came from the pavilion just in front of her.

Maud looked up, her heart pounding. Yes, there was the royal standard atop the tent. She had been too preoccupied to notice. It
was
Stephen’s voice!

As the stunned sentry finally opened his mouth to raise the alarm, one of the soldiers withdrew his hand from beneath the sheet, lunged forward, a pointed dagger in his clenched fist, then drove it straight into the guard’s chest. The spear fell from his hand; he toppled backwards into the snow without a sound.

“All is well, Sire,” the soldier called, muffling his voice in a corner of the sheet.

“Get some sleep then, God rest you.”

“Let us move on, Lady,” whispered one of her companions. “The others will catch us up.”

But the sound of Stephen’s voice, the prone body of the sentry, whose sightless eyes seemed to be fixed upon her in an accusing stare, had robbed Maud of the ability to act. She could not take her eyes off the lifeless body being dragged out of sight behind a clump of frost-laden bushes. A trail of blood, brilliantly scarlet against the alabaster snow, marked the body’s passage over the frozen ground. One of the soldiers brushed snow over the telltale drops with the toe of his boot, while the other heaped armfuls of snow over the guard’s body. Within moments there remained no trace of him.

“He won’t be discovered till morning, and even then everyone will assume it to be the work of outlaws hiding in the forest.” The soldier turned to Maud. “Madam, what ails you? We must move now.” And taking her arm, he forcefully led her away.

The remainder of the night, stumbling through deep snowdrifts, sliding across icy streams, and striving to avoid the scourge of wind and frost, became an incoherent blur in Maud’s mind. By the time they stumbled through the gates of Abingdon Abbey, a gray dawn was breaking over the horizon. Maud could no longer feel her face, and her hands, even in their fur-lined gauntlets, were numb with cold.

She and her companions stayed only long enough to warm themselves by a roaring fire and gain strength through a meal of dried pea soup and chunks of black bread. The Abbot agreed to give them the use of four horses so they could speed straight through to Wallingford, and safety.

They reached the great fortress at Wallingford in time to hear the Compline bell. At first, the watch in the gatehouse refused to lower the drawbridge.

“The Lady of England escaped from Oxford and walked to Abingdon? Through all this snow? Do you take me for a fool?”

“Call for the Lord of Wallingford at once,” Maud cried with her last ounce of strength before sliding from her horse into a deep snowdrift.

She could hear voices shouting back and forth. Then one of the soldiers knelt beside her to say that the Lord of Wallingford was being summoned. Barely conscious, Maud heard the creak of the portcullis being drawn up, then the dull thud of the drawbridge as it hit the ground.

Strong arms lifted her from the snow. Incredulous voices murmured words of praise and disbelief. She was dimly aware of being carried inside the castle, then placed in a tub of water so scalding she screamed in agony as life gradually returned to her frozen limbs. A burning frothy liquid was poured down her throat; her body was laid in a soft bed heated with hot bricks. Fleece comforters were piled over her. She sank into welcome oblivion.

Gradually Maud became aware of someone sitting on the bed, tickling her face. She felt warm and drowsy, unwilling to open her eyes or move a single muscle. From far off she heard the sound of the Vespers bell. She had slept through the night and an entire day. Perhaps even two days. The tickling continued. Annoyed, she opened her eyes, startled to meet a pair of smoky gray eyes in a freckled face. Chunky arms clasped her none too gently around the neck. Dear God, Holy Mother, it was Henry!