“What would you have me say, Rainald? I do not deny that Maude is miserable in her marriage. But antagonizing Geoffrey does her no service. Bluntly put, we need him. Until we can find a safe English port, Normandy is the battlefield for our war, and we cannot hope to win it without Geoffrey’s support. So the next time you two get the urge to make Maude a widow, bear in mind that your gallantry might cost her a crown.”
That silenced both Ranulf and Rainald, at least for the moment, and Amabel seized the opportunity to bolster Robert’s argument. “You’ll not like what I have to say; I’d have you hear me out, nonetheless. I am not defending Geoffrey, but Maude is not blameless, either. She puts me in mind of a woman who salts a well and then complains when the water is not fit to drink. A few smiles and some honeyed words might work wonders in that marriage!”
Ranulf was already shaking his head in sharp disagreement. “What I most admire about Maude is her lack of pretense. Her ship never flies under false colors. She is honest even if it hurts her, and that is a rare trait, indeed.”
Amabel was not won over. “A blade that cannot bend will eventually break, my lad. All I am saying is that women have no easy time of it in this world, and a woman who scorns to use the only weapons at her command makes her life more difficult than it needs be.”
Now it was Robert’s turn to shake his head. “I doubt that smiles or flattery could redeem Maude’s marriage, Amabel. Geoffrey does not strike me as a man who could be coaxed against his will, no more than I could-”
Amabel’s grin stopped him in midsentence, and he seemed so genuinely perplexed that Ranulf and Rainald could not help laughing, laughter that was cut off abruptly by Geoffrey and Maude’s return to the hall.
They all tensed, but soon saw the crisis was over; Geoffrey and Maude’s anger had burned itself out. They looked tired and subdued and, to Amabel’s critical eye, somewhat ashamed of themselves. She’d have liked to believe that the lesson would take, but she thought it more likely that they’d just blame each other all the more; she’d never known two people so unwilling or unable to learn from their mistakes. Aloud, she asked about Henry, wanting to know if he slept.
“For now,” Maude said, “but I’ll look in upon him later. Robert”-avoiding Geoffrey’s eye, she held out Brien Fitz Count’s letter-“I’d like you to read this.”
Geoffrey crossed to the table, where he poured the last of the wine into two cups, giving one to Maude. Robert passed on the letter to his brothers, and they read it together. The tension was back in the hall, feeding upon silent echoes, all that must be left unsaid.
Robert was studying his sister, troubled by her pallor. There was a brittle edge to her beauty, shadows lying like bruises under her eyes and in the corners of her mouth, and it occurred to him that shadows lay deep, too, in the corners of her life-a thought that startled him, for it seemed much too fanciful to have been his. He could not banish her shadows, but there was something he could offer, a need he could fill. He could give her hope, and he said forcefully:
“I’m much heartened by Brien’s letter. It is indeed as Scriptures say, ‘I was wounded in the house of my friends.’ Of course the Beaumonts cannot take all the blame for Stephen’s folly; he chose to heed them of his own free will. He has made more than his share of mistakes since seizing your throne, Maude, but this breach with the Church might well be the fatal one. We’ll be able to sow dissension with ease, and God Willing, we’ll reap enough support to harvest a crown.”
That was bold talk for Robert, a man who measured his words with such scrupulous care that he could put a lawyer to shame, and Maude gave him a grateful smile; tonight of all nights, that was what she needed to hear. Ranulf and Rainald were chiming in with eager assurances of their own. But Geoffrey’s voice cut through their confidence with knifelike clarity.
“Are you not putting the cart before the horse?”
Maude’s fingers tightened around the stem of her wine cup. “What do you mean by that, Geoffrey?” she asked warily, and he shrugged.
“You may well be right about the seriousness of Stephen’s blunder. But even if he has set chaos loose upon his land, how does it benefit you? Unless you find a way to cross the Channel, Stephen’s government can be unraveling like a ball of yarn and it will avail you naught.”
They were all glowering at him, but for once Geoffrey’s tone was free of mockery. As hard as it was to give him the benefit of any doubt, it did seem as if he’d not meant to be malicious this time. He was right, of course, too, for nothing could be done until they broke Stephen’s stranglehold upon the English ports. They could not, in fairness, fault him merely for speaking the truth, however unpalatable or ill-timed. And so they held their peace, and as always, Maude thought wearily, Geoffrey got the last word.
ON a sunlit Friday four weeks later, Ranulf led his horse from the stables. He was about to swing up into the saddle when his eye was drawn to a blaze of vivid red color. Maude might scorn embroidery and needlework, but she did enjoy gardening, and her roses were in spectacular scarlet bloom. Detouring across the bailey, Ranulf hitched his stallion and set about helping himself to some of his sister’s damask roses. He picked only a few, though, before the screaming started.
Two small boys were rolling about in the dirt near the stable door. By the time Ranulf reached them, Henry looked to be the winner, straddling Geoffrey while his brother kicked and screeched. Grabbing his tunic, Ranulf yanked Henry to his feet, and then caught Geoffrey before he could flee. “Enough! What is this squabbling about?”
“He stole my sword,” Henry panted, “and then broke it!”
“I did not!” Geoffrey was just as breathless and just as indignant. “It was mine!”
The disputed sword lay a few feet away, its wooden blade snapped off near the hilt. One glance was all Ranulf needed to give his verdict. “That was not your sword, Geoffrey,” he said, with such conclusive certainty that his nephew stared up at him, openmouthed and wide-eyed.
“How…how did you know?”
Ranulf concealed a smile. “Because,” he said gravely, “I made that sword myself, and gave it to your brother on his birthday last March. So you owe Henry an apology. Go on, tell him you are sorry.”
Geoffrey mumbled a “Sorry” that did not sound very convincing, but it seemed to satisfy Henry, and Ranulf sent them off to play again with a promise to make wooden swords for them both. Henry came running back a moment later, though. “Uncle Ranulf…will you make my sword bigger?”
“Well…” Ranulf pretended to ponder the request, but Henry caught the glint in his eye, and they grinned at each other. The boy spun around then, to chase after Geoffrey, and Ranulf, laughing softly to himself, headed back to retrieve his horse and his roses.
He did not need to go far. Gilbert Fitz John was coming toward him, leading the stallion and carrying the flowers. “So…did you get the lads to make their peace?”
“At least until supper.”
Gilbert laughed, playfully jerking the flowers out of Ranulf’s reach. “What is your hurry? And why the roses? Ah…you’re going courting again! The goldsmith’s daughter?”
“Who else? Lora sent me word that her father left this morning to deliver a chalice to the monks at St Martin’s. Since he’ll not be back to Argentan till late, I thought I ought to stop by, keep her from getting lonely.”
“How good-hearted of you! Will that be after you visit with the widows and orphans?”
Ranulf laughed, jabbed Gilbert in the ribs, and snatched back his flowers. But as he reached for the reins, Gilbert put a restraining hand upon his arm.
“Ranulf, wait. I’ve a letter that you’ll want to see-from Ancel.”
They’d not heard from Ancel in almost two years, not since his return to England, and as soon as Gilbert produced the letter, Ranulf grabbed for it eagerly. Gilbert was explaining that Ancel had found a man going on pilgrimage to the Spanish shrine of Santiago de Compostela, and he’d persuaded the man to stop at Argentan. “I pro
mised him a seat at supper in the great hall and a bed for the night. But what he really wants is to talk with you, Ranulf. That was how Ancel coaxed him into taking the letter, offering him a chance to meet a king’s son-even one born on the wrong side of the blanket!”
But Gilbert’s banter was wasted, for Ranulf was no longer listening. After rapidly scanning the letter, and not finding what he sought, he turned aside, swearing softly.
“Ranulf?” Gilbert followed, puzzled. “What is amiss?” And then he understood. “Annora? Good God, Ranulf, is that wound still sore?”
“No,” Ranulf said curtly, “it is not. But I still have a fondness for her, wish her well. Why should that surprise you? I simply wanted to know if she is content, and if Ancel ever used the brains God gave him, he’d have understood that! But no, nary a word about her-”
“What did you want him to tell you? That her husband dotes on her and she goes about her days singing? Or that she has grown thin and wan and weeps in secret?”
Ranulf whirled, eyes narrowed to glittering slits. “I said I wanted only to know if she was well!”
“If she were ailing, Ancel would have told you. But her happiness is no longer your concern. She is a married woman, and by now, it’s likely she has a babe in the cradle and another on the way-”
“I know full well that Annora is another man’s wife, do not need to have you throw it in my face!”
Gilbert was not perturbed by Ranulf’s anger, for he knew his friend’s rages were fast-burning and soon over, sooner forgotten. What troubled him was the reason for Ranulf’s flare of temper. He’d truly believed that Ranulf’s feelings for Annora were-like Annora herself-part of his past. “I am sorry about the sermon, Ranulf. I guess I’ve been spending too much time with my cousin the priest.”
“Indeed you have,” Ranulf agreed coolly, although the corners of his mouth were quirking. “But what I cannot understand, Gib, is why I’m still here with you when I could be in Master Jehan’s house with Lora.” And Gilbert grinned, stepped back, and waved him on.
Ranulf had gotten no farther than the gatehouse when he heard his name being shouted behind him. He reined in, then sent his stallion cantering back toward Gilbert. “What now?”
“Lady Maude and Lord Robert…they want you to come back straightaway!” Gilbert was gasping for breath; he’d sprinted all the way across the inner and outer baileys so he could catch Ranulf in time. “A courier came for her soon after that pilgrim brought Ancel’s letter. I heard men say he bore a message from your father’s queen. Her news…it must be very good or truly terrible, Ranulf, if Lady Maude is so intent upon finding you!”
Maude had never found many friends among her own sex, but the Lady Adeliza was the exception. She and Maude had taken to each other from the moment of Maude’s forced return from Germany. Not so surprising, perhaps, for they shared much in common. Adeliza was German by birth, Maude by choice. They were the same age, a young queen in a land not her own, a young widow no longer at home in England, and both childless, although that would change, Maude bearing Geoffrey the sons she’d not borne for the emperor, and Adeliza-whose barren marriage had altered so many lives, especially Maude’s-now in her second year with a new husband and said to be great with child. But if their circumstances had radically changed over the years, the bond between the two women had held fast, and Ranulf, ever the optimist, had no trouble convincing himself that Adeliza’s news was good.
Gesturing for Gilbert to mount behind him, Ranulf headed back toward the inner bailey. Maude and Robert were too impatient to wait for him within the castle keep, and were on the outer stairs. As soon as Ranulf’s horse came into view, Maude lifted her skirts and ran lightly down to him, calling out his name.
Ranulf flung himself from the saddle. “No one,” he said, “is ever in such a tearing hurry to share bad news. So we must have reason for rejoicing?”
“Indeed we do! Adeliza has offered us a safe landing in the south of England.”
Ranulf gasped. “At Arundel? She’d truly do that for you? Jesu, Maude, Arundel Castle is almost as formidable as Bristol!”
“Stephen thinks he has locked us out of England, but now we have the key. No more waiting, Ranulf-the time has finally come to reclaim my stolen crown!”
A sudden high-pitched yell floated across the bailey, a sound rarely heard off the hunting field. Rainald was standing in the doorway of the keep, cupping his hands to shout, “Get in here, Ranulf, so we can start to celebrate in earnest!”
Ranulf was too busy hugging his sister to pay Rainald any heed. By the time Maude broke free, laughing and breathless, Robert had reached them, with Amabel close behind. Rainald ducked back into the keep, reemerged brandishing a wine flagon. “If you’re all so set upon holding the festivities out in the bailey, at least I can provide fuel for the fire!”
After that, it got very chaotic for a time. Ranulf was kissed by Maude and Amabel, shared smiles with Robert, had wine spilled on him by Rainald, and was knocked to the ground by his dyrehunds, who’d bolted from the great hall at their first opportunity. Midst much laughter, Ranulf was helped to his feet and dusted off. It occurred to him that he ought to send Lora a message, not wanting her to worry when he failed to appear, and he glanced about for Gilbert. But then Maude drove all thoughts of the goldsmith’s daughter from his head, for she was saying with a fond smile:
“We have so much to do and not enough time. But this I vow to you, Ranulf-ere we sail for England, I will see to it that you are knighted.”
“Maude…thank you,” Ranulf stammered, at a rare loss for words, and they all laughed again. Maude happened then to notice Robert’s squire, standing a few feet away, still holding the reins of Ranulf’s horse.
“You, too, Gilbert. I’ll have Geoffrey knight you both,” she promised impulsively, and Gilbert’s fair skin flushed as red as his hair. He was even more thrilled than Ranulf, for Ranulf had never doubted that knighthood would eventually be his. But for Gilbert, a younger son with no prospects of inheriting his family’s manor, it had been far more problematic.
“How can I ever thank you?” he blurted out, and then found a way when he added, “my lady queen,” for Maude would remember that she’d been recognized for the first time as England’s sovereign on an August afternoon in the inner bailey of Argentan Castle.
Eventually they headed indoors, at Rainald’s prodding, for he’d run out of wine. Robert and Amabel had begun to argue, low-voiced but intently, after she’d announced her intention to sail with him back to England. Ranulf and Gilbert were eager to tell their fellow squires of the honour soon to be bestowed upon them, and Maude had plans to make, letters to write, a triumph to savor. But as she turned to follow the others, she felt a sudden tug upon her skirt, and found herself looking down into the anxious face of her eldest son.
Henry had been drawn from the stables by the commotion out in the bailey. He’d kept silent, careful not to attract attention to himself, and he’d listened. But now he could wait no longer for answers, and he yanked again on his mother’s skirt. “Mama? Are you going to England, to this…this Arundel?”
“Yes, Henry, I am,” she said, and he grinned, for he loved to travel and he was especially eager to make his first sea voyage.
“When will we go, Mama? Soon?”
Maude knelt, heedless of her skirts, and put her hands on his shoulders. “I am sorry, lad, but you cannot come. It would be too dangerous. As much as I would love to have you with me, I cannot put your safety at risk.”
Henry’s breath stopped, disappointment warring with disbelief. His father was often gone. As much as he missed Papa, he’d learned to accept it, that Papa came and went as unpredictably as the stable cat he’d befriended when Mama had first brought him to live at Argentan. Fathers and cats were like that, not reliable like dogs. Or mothers, for Mama had always been there, and when she did go away, it was never for long. He knew better, though, than to beg. He could wheedle his way with his father most of the time, with
his mother some of the time-but never when she used this tone of voice, very serious and yet patient, too, how he imagined God would talk, if ever He talked to mortal men. He bit his lip, stared down at the ground, and then raised his eyes to meet hers.
“If it is too dangerous for me,” he said, “what about you, Mama? How will you be safe?”
Maude had so often prided herself on his precocity, gloried in her firstborn’s quickness, his obvious intelligence. But not now; now she’d have welcomed childish incomprehension, anything but those direct grey eyes, fixed unwaveringly upon her face. “Yes…there will be some danger. But your uncles will be with me, and they’ll keep me safe.”
Henry wanted to ask why they could not keep him safe, too, but she was still using her God voice, and he didn’t dare. “How long will you be gone, Mama?”
That was the question Maude had been dreading. She could not bring herself to lie to him, though, for she believed strongly that her children deserved the truth. But never had the truth been so sure to hurt. “I wish I could tell you that I’d soon be able to send for you, Henry. God knows I would have it so. But I can make you no promises, for I do not know how long it will take to win my war. I just do not know.”
For Henry, it was like the time his brother Geoffrey jabbed him with a broom handle-a sharp pain in the pit of his stomach, slowly easing to a dull ache, and even after the pain went away, he still felt so hollow that it hurt.
His mother’s hands had tightened on his shoulders. “Ah, Henry, do not look like that! Your father will take good care of you, and you’ll have your brothers for company and your tutor and your new puppy…” Maude forced a smile. “And when we are together again, I’ll be wearing upon my head a gilded crown, a crown that will one day be yours, lad. You must remember that whenever you feel sad, remember that shining, golden crown.”
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