The Fatal Crown (71 page)

It was still dark when Henry felt an arm shaking him awake.

“An emissary from King Stephen,” the sergeant whispered in an excited voice.

Henry threw off the cloak that covered him and sat up abruptly, rubbing his eyes. “Did he bring money?”

“I think so,” the sergeant replied. “He shook a leather pouch and it sounded like coins.”

“Was he alone?”

“I could neither see nor hear anyone else, yet I like it not. It has the smell of a trap. I say we make our escape while we can.”

“You worry like an old woman. If he’s come with the money then all is well.” Henry grinned. “There’s nothing to fear.”

Hastily he dressed, wishing his garments were cleaner and did not smell so strongly. Through the trees a faint pink glow heralded the break of day. He followed the sergeant deeper within the woods to where a tall man waited beside a horse. Although it was still too dark to see the man’s face clearly, Henry could detect an unusual presence about him. Surely this was no common emissary but some highborn lord sent to treat with him. Trying to mask his excitement, he squared his shoulders, lifting his head proudly.

“Henry of Anjou?” the man asked softly. When Henry nodded, he took a few steps toward him. “King Stephen honors his second cousin. He wishes to know what your intentions were when you made this voyage?”

Henry felt himself flush. He cleared his throat. “Well, to be honest, I had hoped to raise support for my mother’s cause, but matters didn’t fall out that way.”

“I see. We heard initially that you landed with a thousand men. Did Count Geoffrey or your mother aid you in this venture?”

“Oh no, my lord. Neither of them knew anything about it until I’d left Normandy. In fact, I have greatly displeased them. I’m commanded to go at once to Bristol and then return home.” He paused. “I spread the rumor about the thousand men myself.”

There was a faint chuckle from the man. “Did you indeed! Tell me, why do you want the money if you return home?”

Henry hesitated. “Well, in truth, I promised my men—there are only a few—either pay or spoils and I … well … my uncle and mother would not give me any money—” He was so mortified that he could not continue, but rubbed his booted foot into the mossy forest floor.

“No need to explain further,” the man said. “I quite understand. To keep faith with your men is the first sign of a good commander.”

To hear himself referred to as a good commander was balm to his wounded pride. Henry’s chest swelled and he found himself drawn to this courtly knight. Quite unexpectedly, the man threw him a leather pouch which Henry caught with one hand.

“King Stephen bids you take the money and leave for Wareham immediately. From there you will set sail for Normandy.”

Henry hefted the bag. Enough, more than enough it felt like, to pay his men, their passage back to Normandy, and some left over. He could hardly believe it, and found himself much moved by this princely gesture from one who was his avowed enemy.

“I’m most grateful to King Stephen,” he stammered, looking up at the man towering over him. “I will never forget his kindness to me this day.”

There was a long silence while the two curiously examined each other. In the dawn light, Henry could now see the knight’s face clearly: Beneath the hood of his cloak, golden brown hair, streaked with white, curled damply on his brow. A pair of warm green eyes dancing with golden lights illuminated a strongly sculpted face with high cheekbones and mobile lips. The man reached out and gently tilted Henry’s face toward the sun.

“Your mother’s eyes,” he murmured with a catch in his voice.

“You know my mother?” Henry asked, amazed.

“At one time, yes.” The man dropped his hand but not before Henry had glimpsed his massive gold ring set with precious stones flashing in the pale sunlight. “The King says that if he finds you or your men in these parts by midday he will take you captive. Be warned and leave now.”

“Yes, yes, I leave at once, upon my honor.” Henry hesitated. “May one ask your name, my lord?”

“My name is not important. Let us just say one who wishes you Godspeed.” As he spoke, the man mounted his horse. “Fare well, young Henry of Anjou.” Turning his mount toward the east, he was soon lost to view.

Thoughtful, Henry walked back through the forest to join his men. He held up the bag of coins and was greeted with cheers. Later, as he told his men of the encounter with the King’s emissary, the sergeant asked him to describe the ring again.

“I’ve seen Stephen of Blois many a time when he was in Normandy, before he assumed the throne, but in the dark I didn’t recognize him. That sounds like the ring he always wore, right enough. Green eyes, you say, tall, hair like honey in the comb. God’s teeth, that could only be the King himself.”

The men spoke among themselves, looking speculatively at Henry.

“A courtly man, is this king,” Henry said, wonderingly. “So have I heard men say and now I know it to be true. But in his place I would have withheld assistance and taken me captive for a goodly ransom.”

He threw back his head and laughed aloud, a joyous, innocent sound that rang through the stillness of the forest. “Which is why I will win, by God’s splendor,” he cried, with all the boundless confidence of youth. “Yes, I will win and he will lose.”

R
OBERT OF GLOUCESTER LAY
dying.

In late October, five months after Henry had returned to Normandy, Maud sat by her half-brother’s bed in his chamber at Bristol Castle, reading aloud a letter from her son written by one of Geoffrey’s clerics.

“Henry claims that next time he will come with enough men to conquer Stephen.” She folded the parchment with a sigh. “I could almost envy such confidence.”

“Does the young hothead think he can count on the King’s chivalry a second time?” Robert mused. “I still cannot imagine what prompted Stephen to give the boy money.”

Nor could she, Maud thought, wishing she had been a silent witness to the meeting between them. Despite her sense of relief at Stephen’s magnanimous—if incredulous—gesture, she could not help but wonder if Stephen had any inkling that he had come face to face with his own flesh and blood. It seemed impossible, yet there was a faint nagging doubt in her mind. On the other hand, how could he keep such vital knowledge to himself? Just the mere suggestion of her adultery and Henry’s bastardy would raise such a hue and outcry she would be forever discredited, Henry would be removed as a threat, and the conflict would be over.

She comforted herself with the thought that Stephen did not know.

“Typical of Stephen, isn’t it?” Robert was saying now. “Arundel all over again. Almost as if he
knows
that in the end Henry will be king.” Suddenly he moaned, a spasm of pain crossing his face. Alarmed, Maud leaned forward. “What ails you?” She beckoned a servitor who sat in a corner of the chamber. “Shall Garth fetch you something? Wine?”

Robert shook his head and closed his eyes. Helpless to aid him, Maud had watched in fearful concern as her half-brother grew weaker and weaker ever since that fateful morning four months ago when he had quite suddenly become unconscious. When Robert woke two days later he could not move his right arm and the right side of his body was completely paralyzed. His speech had been unintelligible at first but slowly he recovered. He still could not move his right side, however, and the physicians claimed they were unable to help him further. They warned that he was dying. Now his remaining hair was entirely white, his body so frail that he looked almost transparent.

“You know, I’ve been thinking about Stephen quite a lot lately,” Robert said in his slow careful speech. “The past has been on my mind a great deal.” He slowly turned his head to look deeply into Maud’s eyes. “You know, Sister, I sometimes wonder, if I had it to do over again, would I have counseled you to invade England?”

Maud felt the blood drain from her face. “What … what an extraordinary thing to say.”

“Pursuit of the crown does not appear to have brought happiness to either you or Stephen, certainly not to the populace of England. Do you ever think of what you have sacrificed for this venture?”

“Never. From the time my father sent me to Germany at nine years of age I knew that I could never lead the life of an ordinary woman. I was bred to regard myself as consort to a great ruler, with equal responsibilities. Surely that is enough.”

“Is it? What of love, contentment, raising one’s children in peace and plenty? Do you tell me such thoughts have never crossed your mind?”

Maud’s heart skipped a beat. Why was Robert questioning her like this? “Perhaps such thoughts have occurred to me,” she replied, somewhat unwillingly. “I may even have been tempted to give up the struggle, but in the end I always came back to what is important: the crown of England and the ducal throne of Normandy. Do you remember what our father always said?”

“‘A great ruler does not lead his own life but the lives of his subjects,’” Robert quoted. “‘Personal happiness must be sacrificed for the public good.’” He paused. “How often did I carry those words enshrined in my heart like a talisman. Now I wonder.”

“Wonder what?”

“My life was lived in the service of others and I never questioned it. For you, the struggle and the sacrifices may well have been worth it for you never had a fulfilling marriage. You have never known anything else. But left to myself, I would have enjoyed a quiet life watching my children grow, tending my lands, hunting, and pursuing my own interests.”

Maud found her brother’s words disturbing. Was he blaming her for a misspent life? Implying that he had had no choice but to serve her?

“I see I’ve upset you with my fancies. Be at peace for I regret nothing. These are questions that only occur to one at the end.”

At his reassuring smile Maud nodded, recognizing that he had come to terms with himself in some way she did not yet fully understand.

The next afternoon Robert died.

Two days later Brian FitzCount arrived to attend the burial services.

“I’m deeply sorry for your great loss,” Brian said to Maud as they warmed themselves before a fire in the great hall of Bristol Castle. “For
our
great loss. We will not see Robert’s like again.” He paused. “You return to Normandy now?”

Lifting the black veil from her face, Maud nodded. “What else can I do? In Normandy, at least, the conflict is over and Geoffrey victorious. My own funds are totally depleted and Geoffrey refuses to send any more. Now that he has firmly secured the duchy he has lost what little interest he ever had in England.” She looked at Brian with shadowed eyes. “I would give anything to be able to remain but without funds I’m helpless. And now that Robert is gone, I fear that many of my supporters will go too.”

“Don’t give up hope. God will not desert us. Whether you’re here or in Normandy, those of us who are left will continue to fight on in your name, knowing that one day you must return to us.”

“Thank you for that, Brian.” Maud paused. “Did you know that at the end Robert said Henry will be king? Not that I will be queen, but that Henry will be king.”

“It comes to the same thing in the end.”

“Does it?” She sighed. “It feels as if my entire life has been spent in pursuit of the crown. The longer I strive the more it eludes me. I had always intended for Henry to rule after me, of course.” She turned on him, tears glistening in her eyes. “After me,” she repeated in a choked voice, “not instead.”

Brian took her trembling hands in his. “Trust in the natural, right order of things, Maud. Whether you or Henry, in the end justice will be served.”

“Justice? Where is the justice?” Maud burst out passionately. “Stephen is the one who has done the vicious deed, taking my throne, forswearing his oath.”

Brian regarded her steadily. “And Stephen is not having an easy time of it. Since his patron, Pope Innocent, died, the Bishop of Winchester is no longer Papal Legate and is shorn of power. The current pope is a disciple of Bernard of Clairvaux, who hates the Bishop, as he hates all the Cluniac order. There is now real trouble brewing between Stephen and the church in Rome. In time this will work to our advantage.” He paused. “Matilda is seriously ill, an ague in the chest. And Eustace, I understand, is a constant thorn in his father’s side. At this moment Stephen is more deserving of your pity than your wrath.”

Why should I be merciful? she wanted to ask Brian. That devious weathercock, Bishop Henry, was finally reaping what he had sowed. She could not spare a drop of sympathy for his plight. Yet part of her was filled with genuine regret for Matilda’s illness. She could readily understand Stephen’s fear of losing his devoted wife, his terrible disappointment over the malevolent Eustace. Her cousin had, indeed, a heavy cross to bear. Maud could only thank the Holy Mother a thousand times over for bestowing upon her a son like Henry.

But as far as her own feelings for Stephen were concerned, Maud knew she dared not crack the shell of anger and bitterness she had erected around her heart. That shell was her only protection; without it the full force of her love would be unleashed to rise up and utterly consume her. The very possibility was so appalling that she crushed it from her consciousness as she might a viper underfoot.

Her fortunes at their lowest ebb, Maud left Bristol within the week. Upon reaching the Wareham coast she boarded a small vessel that would take her to Normandy. Maud’s hands gripped the rail of the deck when the captain swung the ship’s prow toward the open, green-waved sea. A biting wind whipped her cloak about her body. As the distance lengthened between the vessel and the shore she wondered what would be the circumstances for her return to England? For return she would; she must never let herself believe otherwise.

I
N THE AUTUMN OF
1148, a year after Maud had left England, Stephen journeyed to Hedingham Castle in Essex where Matilda lay gravely ill. He had been there less than a week when the Earl of Leicester brought him word from Rheims that rumors were afoot that the new pope, as well as the Archbishop of Canterbury, would recognize Henry of Anjou as heir to the English throne.