Her lovely blue eyes were glistening with unshed tears; she’d always had the useful talent of crying on command. “How could I turn his child away from my door? I owed him better than that. Surely you can understand my dilemma?”
“Yes, I can,” Stephen said obligingly, and she thought there was much to be said for good manners in a king. “But however well meaning you were, Lady Adeliza, that does not change the fact that you are harboring a rebel. I am not a man to hold grudges, though. If you turn her over to me with no delay, I’ll forgive this lamentable lapse in judgment-provided, of course, that you never give me reason again to doubt your loyalty.”
Adeliza’s smile was tremulous, radiantly grateful. “We will indeed be loyal, my liege, I swear it. And I would willingly do as you bid me, if only it were in my power. But how can I betray my husband’s daughter? How could I live with myself? You are known to be a man of honour, my lord king,” she entreated. “Surely you understand?”
This time, though, he was not so quick to assure her that he did. “Just what would you have me do, madame?”
“Show mercy, my liege. Do not make me prove my loyalty to you by sacrificing my stepdaughter. You can afford to be magnanimous. Give her a safe conduct to Bristol, let her go in peace to join her brother. Surely that would be a gesture worthy of a king?”
Up until now, the men had been listening in attentive silence, for Adeliza’s tearful appeal was undeniably entertaining. But at that, they burst into incredulous laughter, all but Stephen and his brother the bishop. Reaching down, Stephen raised Adeliza gently to her feet. “It would,” he said wryly, “be a gesture worthy of a saint! I will think upon your request, Lady Adeliza. More than that, I cannot promise.”
There was much merriment in Stephen’s tent after Adeliza had been escorted back to Arundel Castle. Her proposal was so ludicrous that even the moody Earl of Northampton joined in the mockery, and Waleran, a wicked mimic, soon had them laughing until they had no breath for talking. Stephen took no part in their raillery, content to drink his wine and listen to the joking and jests, occasionally smiling at a particularly clever gibe. The bishop remained aloof, watching them with none of Stephen’s indulgent good humor. When the hilarity finally showed signs of subsiding, he said, with grave deliberation:
“Actually, the woman’s plea may not be as foolish as it first seems. It might indeed be to our advantage to let Maude go to Bristol Castle.”
There was an astonished silence, and then an explosion of indignant sound, as they competed with one another to deride the bishop’s suggestion as preposterous and absurd. But Henry was an old hand at commanding attention, and he soon drowned them out.
“Do you fools think Arundel will fall into your hands like a ripe plum? The castle could hold out for months. And what do you think the Earl of Gloucester would be doing whilst we besieged his sister? He’d be ravaging the whole West Country to lure us off; in no time at all, half of England would be in flames. Or else he’d come down on Arundel like a hawk on a pigeon, and we’d find ourselves trapped between Gloucester’s army and the castle garrison.”
“Ere you start giving us lessons in military tactics, my lord bishop, mayhap you’d best tell us how many battles you have won.”
“I need not swing a battle-axe myself to know it can split a man’s skull. I need only rely upon my common sense, which you, my lord Waleran, seem utterly to lack-else you’d see the dangers in a prolonged siege of Arundel! If we allow Maude to join Robert at Bristol, we can contain the rebellion to the west, keep London safe whilst we move against them. If Robert Fitz Roy marches to his sister’s rescue, he’ll be marching toward London. Or did that never occur to you?”
“A good thing it is that you sought a career in the Church, for if this is an example of your muddled military thinking, you’d not have been able to rout a flock of sheep, much less an enemy army. Once we take Maude, the rebellion ends. It is as simple as that.”
“ Simple is the word, indeed-for you, my lord! Do you truly expect Fitz Roy to bide peacefully at Bristol whilst we-”
Stephen had heard enough. Setting down his wine cup, he slipped quietly from the tent. No one noticed his departure, and the quarreling continued, unabated. He paused to admire a particularly creative burst of profanity, then moved on, trailed by a stray dog; Stephen drew children and dogs to him as if by magic. Ahead lay his mangonels, hauled into position to bombard the castle walls should it come to that. “How goes it, Giles?” he asked, and his serjeant turned with a grin. Whatever faults others found with Stephen’s kingship, he was popular with his soldiers, for he was fearless, accessible, and openhanded, and they thought those were virtues to make up for a multitude of lesser sins.
“Well enough, my liege. We’ve been bringing in cartloads of stones from the closest quarry. You but say the word, and it will be raining rocks all over Arundel.”
“We’ll see,” Stephen said, raising his hand to shade his eyes against the sun’s glare.
Giles saw the direction of his gaze, and volunteered cheerfully, “Oh, she is still up there, my lord, prowling those battlements bold as you please. It is almost as if she were daring us to shoot, and some of the lads would right gladly take that dare. Not,” he added hastily, for he knew his king, “without such a command from you, of course.”
Stephen scowled. “Make sure they understand that,” he said, with unwonted brusqueness. But as he watched that distant female figure upon the castle battlements, his mouth softened into a reluctant smile. “She never did lack for courage, not Maude. I remember a day when we were hunting with her father outside Rouen. Her horse stumbled and threw her, a nasty fall, leaving her bruised and scratched. But she insisted upon getting back on her mare and continuing the hunt, damned if she did not!”
Giles joined politely in Stephen’s laughter, puzzled that his lord should speak so kindly of the woman who was causing him such grief. “Look, my liege! It seems the lady has grown tired of flaunting herself and is going back inside. A pity, for we’ll not find a fairer target!”
“No,” Stephen agreed, “you will not. Giles…go fetch my herald for me. Tell him I’ve an answer for the Lady Adeliza.”
Giles knew, of course, of Adeliza’s entreaty. The whole camp did, for tents were not constructed to contain secrets. “As you will, my liege.” But he did not move, halted by the odd smile hovering in the corner of Stephen’s mouth. His eyes widening, he blurted out in amazement. “My lord-surely you do not mean to let her go?”
Such impertinence would have cost him dear with the old king; Stephen, it amused. Still with that enigmatic half-smile, like a man savoring a very private joke, he said, “In truth, Giles, I mean to do just that.”
The following day was unseasonably mild for October, but to the southwest, the sky was filling with fleecy cumulus clouds, which to the weatherwise, warned of a likely thunderstorm. Within Arundel Castle, the atmosphere was no less unsettled. Adeliza and her husband were still dazzled by her success. Amabel was thankful for Stephen’s astonishing chivalry, but baffled by it, too, as were most of Maude’s men. The villagers were just grateful for their reprieve; they’d not ventured from the castle and so had not yet discovered that Stephen’s men had been indulging in that universal soldier’s pastime-looting. Ranulf was confused and uneasy, for Stephen’s remarkable generosity had stirred up unwelcome memories of the other Stephen, not the usurper but the cousin and friend. And Maude sheathed her emotions in ice, distancing herself from them all by the sheer intensity of her will, until there was not a soul in the castle who’d have dared to ask her what she thought of Stephen’s magnanimity.
Leaving Maude to say her farewells to Adeliza, Ranulf called for his stallion and rode out alone to the king’s camp. Waleran and Stephen’s brother were to escort Maude to Bristol Castle, but they presented dramatically differing visages. The usually equable Waleran was smoldering, while the prickly bishop looked almost benevolent, suspiciously well pleased with himself. He certainly greeted Ranulf wi
th uncharacteristic civility, whereas from Waleran, Ranulf got no more than a grunt. The other men were no more welcoming. William de Ypres was muttering to himself in Flemish, Robert Beaumont was glowering, and the Earl of Northampton looked truly murderous. But their baleful glares were not directed at Ranulf; they were staring at Stephen’s command tent, and then at Stephen himself as he emerged into the cloud-splattered sunlight.
Ranulf stiffened. Stephen came to a halt at sight of his young cousin, and then a smile broke free, bright enough to banish the clouds. “Look at you, Ranulf! What ever happened to that gangling, raw lad I knew? By God, if you’ve not grown to manhood whilst my back was turned!”
“It has been nigh on four years,” Ranulf said tautly. “I came to tell you that my sister will be ready to depart at noon.”
Stephen nodded, and Ranulf flushed, for the older man’s eyes were fixed unwaveringly upon his face, as if they could see into his very soul. The bishop had moved to join them, saying that the empress could take more time if she needed it, but Ranulf barely heard him, unable to tear his gaze away from Stephen’s. He been ready for Stephen’s reproaches, for his coolness, even his hostility. What he’d not expected was that Stephen should be so genuinely glad to see him.
He was so flustered that it was only when he was on his way back to the castle that the significance of the bishop’s words penetrated. Stephen’s allies made a point of referring to Maude by the title she herself detested: Countess of Anjou. Her own supporters accorded her the rank she much preferred, that of empress. And so, Ranulf finally realized, had the bishop.
Maude meant to take just enough men to assure her safety; the rest would be left at Arundel to try to make their way to Bristol once Stephen’s army had been withdrawn, for his safe-conduct was not all-inclusive. Maude was standing now in the lower bailey, listening as Adeliza stammered a last-minute confession. “Maude…I shall pray that you regain your crown; nothing would give me greater joy. But I must tell you this…that prayer is all we can offer from now on. My husband cannot bear arms against Stephen, for I swore to him that we’d keep faith if he let you go. I hope you can understand that?”
Adeliza held her breath then, waiting for Maude’s verdict upon their future friendship, and felt a surge of gratitude when Maude nodded, for she knew only a very real affection could have wrung that concession from Maude, whose political creed came straight from Scriptures: “He that is not with me is against me.” Their embrace was wordless, heartfelt. And then Maude stepped back, beckoning for Ranulf to help her mount. Her head high, her back ramrod-straight, armored in pride, she rode out to confront her enemies.
They were waiting for her, the bishop at his most courtly, Waleran making no effort whatsoever to mask his frustration or his fury. Maude was staring past them as if they were both invisible, though, staring at the man on a splendid roan stallion, tawny hair gilded by a sudden flare of sun, looking composed and confident and very much a king. Maude gave Stephen one intense, burning look, all but scorching the air between them, and then urged her mare on. But Stephen spurred his stallion forward, blocking her path. It was utterly still, all eyes locked upon them, all ears straining to hear what was said. The audience was to be disappointed, for their exchange was too brief and low-pitched to be overheard. A moment, no more than that, and then Stephen was moving aside, Maude was sweeping past him without a backward glance, and the siege of Arundel Castle was over.
As they headed west along the Chichester Road, none intruded upon Maude, for it would have taken a very brave man, or a very insensitive one, to breach her shield of silence. Ranulf, his sister’s self-appointed protector, still held to his vigil, but from a discreet distance. Whistling to his dyrehunds, he slowed his stallion’s pace, planning to drop back and ride with Gilbert; they’d had few chances to talk in these past turbulent days. But Amabel was beckoning to him, and he urged his mount in her direction.
“You know Stephen as well as anyone does, Ranulf. What possessed him to let Maude out of his trap? Rumor has it that the bishop is claiming credit for Maude’s reprieve. Now I admit I know little of military matters; I leave that to Robert. But if the bishop’s argument sounded so outlandish even to me, how did he get Stephen to swallow it?”
Ranulf laughed. “You may be sure he did not. Stephen’s one failing as a battle commander is his lack of patience. He loses interest if a siege drags on too long-unless the prize is well worth the taking. And what prize could be greater than his royal rival for the throne? No, whatever stirred him to offer Maude a safe-conduct, it was not his brother the bishop.”
“Well…what, then? A sudden fit of madness? Was there a full moon that night?”
Ranulf grinned. “I think a sudden fit of chivalry is more likely. Wait…hear me out. Stephen is not a man who’d willingly make war upon a woman. And at Arundel, he’d be making war upon two of them, one his own aunt and a former Queen of England in the bargain.”
“Are you saying, then, that he freed Maude for Adeliza’s sake? I find that rather improbable, lad.”
Ranulf shrugged. “Of course it is improbable, all of it. Give Stephen credit where due; he can always surprise. He’s ever been one for the grand gesture, and you must admit, Amabel, that as gestures go, this was about as grand as you get!”
Amabel caught those grudging echoes of admiration, but she did not share it. “I grant you it was gallant beyond belief. But it was also unforgivably shortsighted, Ranulf, for he had a chance to end the war ere it began, and he let that chance escape with Maude.”
“Thank God he did,” Ranulf retorted, so fervently that she smiled.
“Yes,” she agreed, “Maude must feel truly blessed by the Almighty’s Favor, for nothing less than a miracle got her safe away from Arundel. So why then is she not rejoicing in it?”
Ranulf gave her a surprised look; after all this time, how little she still understood Maude. “Because the Almighty’s Favor comes disguised as Stephen’s, and Maude would starve ere she’d take crumbs from Stephen’s table. It is well nigh killing her to owe her deliverance to his forbearance.”
Amabel marveled she hadn’t seen that for herself. “I wonder,” she mused, “what they said to each other…”
Ranulf wondered, too, and riding by Maude’s side later that afternoon, he seized his first opportunity to ask her. She glanced toward him, then back to the road ahead. “Stephen said, ‘Any debt I may have owed you, Cousin Maude, is now paid in full.’”
Ranulf stared at her. “So he does have an unease of conscience about you!” he exclaimed, and discovered then that he was glad it was so, glad that the Stephen who was his cousin and the Stephen who was king were not such strangers, after all.
“His conscience be damned! He owes me more than a debt. He owes me a crown,” Maude said grimly, and they rode on in silence.
On an overcast afternoon five days later, Robert rode out to meet his sister on the Bristol-Bath Road, so that her entry into Bristol could be a triumphant one. At sight of the approaching riders, Maude reined in her mare. “Well, my lords, it seems this onerous duty of yours has been discharged. You are welcome to accompany us to Bristol if you so choose. I am sure we can find a comfortable night’s lodging for you within my city.”
Waleran smiled sourly. “I would rather,” he said, “beg my bread by the roadside.”
Maude matched Waleran’s smile with an acerbic one of her own. “Keep to your present course and you very well may,” she said, to Waleran’s fury and the bishop’s amusement. He cut off Waleran’s wrathful reply, saying smoothly that he would indeed accept her hospitality.
Waleran choked on an extremely virulent obscenity, and the bishop swung around to admonish the other man, only to find Waleran staring past him in dismay. Turning in the saddle, he saw why. A number of the men riding with Robert were familiar; he recognized Rainald Fitz Roy and Baldwin de Redvers and Shrewsbury’s rebel baron, William Fitz Alan, and Robert’s eldest son, William, who’d been holding Bristol Castle for him. But it
was the identity of the two men flanking Robert that had unleashed Waleran’s strangled profanity: Miles Fitz Walter and Brien Fitz Count, come to Bristol to pledge faith to their queen.
Maude saw them now, too, and laughed, suddenly, joyfully. Waleran slowly shook his head. “God forgive you, Stephen,” he muttered, “for what have you loosed upon us?”
Stephen wasted no time in besieging Brien’s castle at Wallingford. Leaving an armed force to continue the siege, he moved on to attack Trowbridge, held by Miles’s son-in-law. While Stephen was occupied at Trowbridge, though, Miles outflanked the royal army, raced for Wallingford, and broke the siege. He and Robert then turned their fire upon Waleran, newly named by Stephen as Earl of Worcester.
At daybreak on November 7th, they assaulted Worcester, breaking through its defenses on the north side of the city. Fires were set, looting was widespread, and a number of the luckless citizens were taken hostage back to Bristol. Waleran arrived in his plundered town three weeks later, and in the words of the Worcester Chronicle, “When he beheld the ravages of the flames, he grieved, and felt that the blow had been struck for his own injury, and wishing to revenge himself for this, he marched with an army to Sudely,” whose lord was an ally of Robert Fitz Roy. There his men pillaged and burned, and, again in the words of the Worcester Chronicle, “returned evil for evil.”
And so began for the wretched people of England, a time of suffering so great that they came to fear “Christ and his saints slept.”
11
Bristol Castle, England
July 1140
For Stephen and Maude both, it was to be a frustrating year, one of advances and retreats, thwarted victories and inconclusive defeats, check and mate. Matilda scored a diplomatic coup in those early winter months; sailing to France, she negotiated a marriage for her eldest son, Eustace, with Constance, young sister of the French king. But that good news was soured for Stephen by a rebellion in the English Fenlands, instigated by the Bishop of Ely, who’d been nursing a grudge since the Oxford ambush. Stephen raced north, and the bishop fled south, taking refuge at Bristol.
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