Fires of Winter

by Roberta Gellis

  I felt even better when, as Chester entered, Stephen, who had seated himself beside the fire while I went out to fetch the earl, looked up and said, “You desire permission to leave our court? You have it.”

  I had not expected so perfect a response, for the king was not particularly apt at quick responses, and I had to swallow hard to hold back a little crow of laughter. The blow went home too; I could not see Chester’s face, but I saw the way his back stiffened and the slight check in his stride. By the time I closed the door and came to stand beside the king’s chair, however, Chester had bowed slightly and come erect again, wearing a faint smile. He shook his head—to indicate he had not come to ask permission to leave? If so, he was not ready for open challenge of the king’s authority because he said nothing about that.

  “I have a small problem with my bishop about the selection of a priest for the manor of Ridley,” Chester said, “and I thought since you have just approved the election of Theobald as archbishop of Canterbury, that…”

  The earl continued to speak, but I heard no more. I was shocked deaf, dumb, and blind. Theobald had “just” been elected archbishop of Canterbury and that election had been approved by Stephen? Who the devil was Theobald? How was it possible that anyone except Henry of Winchester could have been approved by the king to be archbishop? Henry was Stephen’s own brother and had done more than any other man to win the throne for him.

  When the old archbishop had died not long after Stephen was crowned, it was common gossip that Winchester would be the next archbishop. When he was not elected immediately, some said the canons of Canterbury, who were responsible for the election of the archbishop, were resisting the king’s will because Henry’s interests were too secular. Others said the king himself was delaying the election to obtain the rich revenues of the see, which flowed into his hands while there was no archbishop. I thought it was a bit of both, having heard the king claim he was waiting for the pope to send a legate. This was an excellent excuse for delay while Stephen filled his purse at Canterbury’s deep well and could not be blamed on the king. It was, after all, the pope who bade legates come and go. In addition, the legate could more easily influence the canons so that Stephen could be sure his brother would be elected. But whatever the cause of the delay, I do not think it occurred to anyone that Henry of Winchester would not be elevated to the archbishopric.

  As my shock receded a little, sadness came. Surely Stephen could not be so petty as to deny his brother the crown of his ambition over a quarrel a year in the past? Yet I could see no other reason for the king to permit the election of another man, not even, as far as I had ever heard, a notable churchman. I was no expert on episcopal virtue and I knew that Winchester was no saint, but he was certainly no worse than others who had held the office. He was not lazy or stupid; he was cautious and careful and a good negotiator, which was necessary for the management of the suffragan bishops; he might not be a great scholar, but he loved the Church and would have striven for a smooth working between the Church and the king, which would benefit both and the realm also.

  I never discovered what Chester asked of the king so I never found out whether the request was his real purpose or an excuse for testing some unstated idea. I blame myself for that. Perhaps if I had been more alert I would have seen some sign—but I doubt it. I am not even sure that Chester was a practiced deceiver. I think the angry remark I had made—that he had come to examine the king’s strength—was more true than an angry burst usually is, and little to Chester’s taste as it was, he had decided that he must moderate his demands and live at peace with Stephen or be locked in a struggle he could not be sure of winning.

  It is wonderful how years of service teach a man to keep some small part of him alert to a demand by his master no matter where his thoughts may wander. Thus I responded smoothly when the king asked me to pour wine, but all I saw was that Chester was not dissatisfied with the meeting and the king was openly pleased. They drank a cup of wine together and bid each other a cordial farewell before I was told to open the door and invite others into the king’s chamber.

  I was not surprised when Waleran de Meulan was the first named, but his name brought a new idea into my mind of why Henry of Winchester had been passed over for archbishop of Canterbury. Waleran hated the king’s brother, not for any injury Winchester had done him but for his influence over the king, and of course as archbishop of Canterbury that influence would be greatly increased because Winchester would be speaking for the Church in England rather than for himself. Suddenly it occurred to me that Theobald had one all-important virtue in Waleran’s opinion—he was not Henry of Winchester.

  As I went about among the men talking in the great hall, seeking out those the king wished to see in his chamber and deciding whether to invite those with them or wait until I could discreetly separate them from their companions, the subtle struggle between Waleran and Henry of Winchester replayed itself in my mind. It seemed to me that Dame Fortune had been lifting Waleran up on her wheel for a long time. Part of the king’s love for Waleran was natural—they were much alike in their tastes and humors—but it seemed pure good fortune that Waleran was absent when Henry blamed the king for yielding terms to Redvers and when William of Ypres’s attempt to ambush Robert of Gloucester caused the failure of the campaign in Normandy.

  Not that Waleran left matters in Lady Fortune’s hands completely. I had always suspected that the reason the wound Henry had dealt Stephen in that year-old quarrel had never healed was that Waleran had continued to pour salt into it. And it seemed that I might have been mistaken about why Waleran had been so eager to be rid of me. I had thought it was to collect news about who opposed the elevation of his relatives to one earldom after another; now it seemed more likely that he wanted me out of the way so I could not impede his efforts to worsen the relationship between the king and his brother.

  I liked Henry of Winchester and I did my best to smooth his way, showing him particular courtesy, and making sure the younger squires did too, so that he would feel he was welcome to the king. And those times Stephen refused to see him, I gave the message—or related it to the messenger—with soothing apologies and regrets. If those courtesies were discontinued, Winchester might grow suspicious and angry; his anger and suspicion would irritate the king, who might speak thoughtlessly and harshly; and that could only make Winchester even more suspicious and angry, and round and round. Oh, yes, considerable damage could be done in three months, particularly if Waleran subtly encouraged the discourtesy of the younger squires, who admired him.

  With Winchester’s defeat and probable withdrawal (I had not seen him among the men in the hall) and with William of Ypres still in partial disgrace (I had seen him and spoken a few words, but his company was his own mercenary captains and a few minor courtiers), Waleran was now preeminent with the king. I did not like that at all. Waleran was a fine soldier and in his way shrewd, but I had never seen in him a wider view than the increase in his own wealth and power. Of course Fortune was fickle; Waleran might fall. I would not mind that at all—except that tied so close to him, the king might be dragged down too.

  Altogether, I was in a black humor by the time I went to my pallet that night. What I had learned from listening to the talk in the king’s chamber sickened me. Not only had Winchester been deprived of an elevation I knew he wanted, but Stephen had not had the courage to tell him and explain to him. The king had secretly summoned the canons of Canterbury to Westminster on the twenty-fourth of December, the day Henry had to perform an ordination of deacons in St. Paul’s in London, and the election of Theobald, abbot of Bee, had been carried out in Stephen’s presence and that of the pope’s legate, Alberic of Ostia.

  I was long past weeping over the weaknesses of the king, who was always kind to me so that I could not stop loving him, but I bitterly craved the comfort of Melusine’s body. I needed to talk to her too. The skewed view she had of all events, which had meaning to
her only as they affected her personally or might affect Ulle, sometimes made me laugh. But just as often, her view lifted me out of a rut in which my thoughts went round and round and helped me see and accept a fresh truth. I had done a great deal of talking as well as coupling with Melusine in the past three months, and now I desired her as some men desire drink.

  Next morning I had reason to wonder if that desire had been so strong that some thread of it had disturbed the queen’s dreams as well as my own. Before I had gone in to the king, a page from the queen was bidding me come to break my fast with her. I begged admittance to the king’s closet, where he was in the middle of dressing, and asked his permission. It came so promptly and with so little remark, as well as with eyes that would not meet mine, that I realized he had been with his lady that night and she had already spoken to him about me. His uneasiness was also a warning that the queen was angry; I had expected that and was rather glad to face it so soon. I do not mean that I did not respect the queen and fear her anger, but I felt that the results of the chance I had taken were all good and I hoped to be able to bring her to see it that way.

  Her expression was not encouraging as she gestured me to the end of a bench that was drawn beside her chair. Melusine stood on the other side, her black eyes wide open. I thought she was holding back mingled alarm and indignation, but she went quietly when the queen bade her bring us wine, bread, and cheese.

  “You have failed me!” Maud said bitterly as soon as Melusine was out of hearing.

  “No, madam,” I answered steadily. “I have proven to my satisfaction, and I hope to yours, that my wife is no danger to you, to the king, or to anyone.”

  “You have proven nothing but that you are completely ensorcelled by her. I thought I could trust you.”

  I smiled at her; I could not help it. “I will admit freely that I am happier in my marriage than I expected to be. If you wish to say Melusine has bewitched me, I will even agree to that. But I have nonetheless fulfilled your trust as well as I could, not betrayed it.”

  “Do you think I do not know you took Melusine to Ulle?” she asked.

  “Madam, I am not a fool,” I protested quietly. “I never intended our visit to be a secret either from you or from the king. I told my master as soon as I could. From what you say, I must assume Melusine did not tell you. I cannot imagine why, unless she was afraid, but—”

  Melusine’s low, musical laugh interrupted me. “I was afraid, madam,” she said, laying a loaf of bread, a large piece of cheese, a flagon of wine, and three cups beside me on the bench. “But that was not why I did not speak. You know I had no chance. In the press of great ladies attending you, I could not come near until you summoned me this morning. And then you called me a witch, a corrupting witch, and then Bruno came before I could even ask why you missaid me.”

  Maud’s eyes flicked from me to Melusine. “Why did you go to Ulle?”

  “For three reasons,” I replied. “First because I wished to look at the lands when I was not part of an attacking army—I will, if you will permit, explain why I wished to see them in a moment.”

  “You need not.” Maud’s voice cut at me like cold steel. “It is clear enough why you wished to see Ulle. You hope to get those lands.”

  Chapter 18

  Melusine

  The queen’s voice was cold and hard as she accused Bruno of desiring to obtain my lands, and my heart froze within me. Why I had not expected her to guess so obvious an intention, I do not know. I had been annoyed with Bruno yesterday morning for disappearing as he did because I had been eager to get to court early. I had thought I could explain to the queen that once we had ridden into Northumbria I had become terribly sick for a sight of my old home and had wheedled Bruno into taking me there, but I had no conception of the number of great ladies who had come to court with their husbands. I had not even been able to beg for a private word. Now I was sure all was lost, and I did not know whether to admire Bruno’s unshaken demeanor or be contemptuous of him for his stupidity.

  “Yes, madam,” he replied with perfect calm, “every man desires land of his own, and I would be a great fool if I did not see the suitability of Ulle as a reward for good and honest service on my part. But there is no need for you to think me presumptuous enough to expect that reward soon. I have done nothing to deserve it. All the favors have flowed the other way. I do not forget what I owe King Stephen, who raised me from nothing to a knight of the royal household.” Suddenly he grinned mischievously and glanced at me. “And much against my will you have done me a greater favor and given me my heart’s desire.”

  “I am glad you are happy,” Maud snapped bitterly, “but I did not expect you, of all men, to lose your head. How could Stephen dare trust a vassal in thrall to a disloyal wife?”

  “Melusine is not disloyal,” Bruno said, staring back at her, but he was still grinning. “Of course, she is not loyal either. I would never try to tell you that—”

  I thought him mad. “Will you give me leave to retire so that you can discuss me more freely,” I cried, barely holding back my tears as I saw all my hopes in ruin.

  “No! Sit down and listen!” Maud ordered. “It will do you good.”

  I stood still for a moment, startled. To my surprise I had detected just a hint of amusement, the faintest thawing, in those last words. Before I started to move toward the bench on which Bruno was sitting, Maud pointed to the wine. Bruno took the flagon and poured a cup for her. I was beside him by then and he looked up and smiled as he gave the cup to me, touching my fingers before he let go. Maud took the cup, darting a swift glance at me, then fixed her eyes on Bruno again, nodding for him to go on. He was still smiling faintly.

  “My second reason for going to Ulle,” Bruno said, “was that I thought if I promised to take Melusine there, she would not try to escape me on the road, which would save me infinite trouble.”

  “I said I would not try to run away,” I protested, but neither of them looked at me.

  I was angry, but under that was a thread of relief; it was infuriating to be ignored by people who were discussing me—one of them my own husband—but I also felt I would be ground to a powder between those two implacable wills if I should interpose myself. And all mingled in with the rage and fear and relief was admiration for Bruno. I had always thought of him as an obsequious servant in the court, but he was not bowing now.

  “My third reason,” he hesitated and then went on in a rush, “was that I could think of no better time or place to determine whether your suspicions that Melusine was an inveterate rebel were true. I brought her to Ulle; I gave her what seemed to be freedom to do what she wished; I set my men to watch what she did.”

  “You spied on me!” I cried.

  He turned to look at me that time. “Yes,” he admitted. “Merwyn followed you that first day when you met Tom Bailiff in the hollow. You are very innocent, Melusine. I do not think you ever looked behind.”

  “Why should I suspect such a thing?” I gasped. “You only pretended to want to go to Thirl. It was a trap.”

  “Yes.” He was half laughing, half shamefaced. “But the innocent do not need to fear traps. Madam,” he turned again to the queen, “I swear that all Melusine cares for is the well-doing of Ulle. I cannot tell you that she will ever support King Stephen, but neither will she lift one finger to help King David. I heard her say—and she did not know I heard—that for all she cared both England and Scotland could sink into the sea, so long as Ulle was safe and quiet.”

  “That is not much advantage to the king,” the queen remarked, but I thought I saw the smallest quiver at the corner of her mouth.

  Bruno shrugged. “Nor is it any great disadvantage. Come, madam, you know that it is a common condition that women do not care much for kings and great causes. They care for their children, for the land that supports and shelters them, and sometimes—” Bruno cast a glance at me that brought color to
my cheeks before he looked back at the queen and added slowly, “sometimes they care for their husbands.”

  I was not as brave as Bruno. I was too much afraid of the queen to scream aloud that I was no more slave to my lust than he was, that I would not follow blindly any path he laid down for me just because I did care—no, no, I must not allow myself, not yet—and certainly, I thought, biting my lip with rage, certainly not when he had just implied I would give up everything Papa wanted for him. While I was choking back my anger, I missed a few brief exchanges between Bruno and the queen. She looked more amused than enraged when he rose and nodded, implying permission for a request that may have entered my ears but had not penetrated my thoughts. When he took my arm, I almost pulled away but I dared not, not knowing what had been said.

  “The queen has given permission for us to lodge outside the palace—if we can find a lodging,” he said, as he drew me toward the door of the hall. “When you do not need her, Edna can go with one of the men to look for a place. She knows the town and knows people who are familiar with London. We can ride in, if you are willing to rise early.”

  “I am not so eager as you think to share a bed with you,” I muttered, choking on rage and shame. “If you think you can use my lust to tame me, you are mistaken.”

  We had come to the doorway, and Bruno stopped. “What are you talking about?”

  “How dare you say ‘women care for their husbands’ after looking at me as if I were some man-sick—”