It was the sudden break in the music that caught their attention. The carol had not ended; it just stopped in midnote. Heads were turning toward the door, where several of Stephen’s guards were scuffling with a very determined intruder. Even as they dragged him away, he was shouting that it was life or death, he must see the king.
Whether it was due to courtesy or curiosity, Stephen was almost always willing to hear a man out. “Let him approach,” he commanded, and a path cleared among the dancers.
The man was exhausted, staggering with fatigue. When he sank to his knees before Stephen, it seemed more an act of physical prostration than one of protocol. “I’ve ridden from Lincoln, my liege, and in four days’ time, too, God smite me if I lie. I come at the behest of Sir Robert de la Haye, your castellan. I bear, too, a letter from His Grace, the Bishop of Lincoln, and a third plea from the townspeople…”
He faltered then, and Stephen said quickly, “Wine for this man.” It was more than one hundred thirty miles to London. No man would race the Devil over winter-ravaged roads unless it truly was “life or death.” Stephen waited impatiently until the man had gulped down a cupful of sweet wine, spilling as much as he swallowed. “Tell me,” he demanded. “What evil has overtaken Lincoln?”
“The Earl of Chester and his brother, the new Earl of Lincoln…they have betrayed you, my liege. On Thursday last, they seized control of Lincoln Castle.”
There were audible gasps from those listening. “That cannot be,” Stephen said incredulously. “The castle could never be taken in just a day!”
“They did not assault it like honest men, my lord king. They took it by guile and perfidy. The men of Lincoln were to play camp-ball with a neighboring town, and the castellan agreed to let most of the garrison take part in the game, the honour of Lincoln being at stake. So there were only a few guards at the castle when the Countess of Chester and the Countess of Lincoln came to pay a call upon Lady Muriel, the castellan’s wife. A short while thereafter, the Earl of Chester arrived to escort the ladies back to their lodging, but none suspected evildoing, for he wore no sword and had just three men with him. Once they were admitted into the castle, though, they seized weapons belonging to the garrison and attacked the sentries. One of their men then rushed to open the postern gate, letting in William de Roumare and the rest of their cohort. By the time word got out into the town, it was too late, for the deed was done.”
Withdrawing several sealed parchments from the pouch at his belt, he offered them to Stephen. “These letters bear out what I say, my liege. Once they held the castle, Chester and his brother began to make harsh demands upon the townspeople. They sent out men to ransack houses and carried off food and provisions to replenish the castle larders, and if they came upon an item of value in their search for flour and salted pork, they took that, too. Several townsmen have lost horses, and rumor has it that women have been molested, although I cannot confirm that for certes; they would naturally keep silent from the shame of it.”
He at last paused for breath. “My lord king, the citizens and the bishop and your castellan all implore you to deliver them from these wicked men. Highborn they may be, but they are no better than brigands, God’s Own Truth. As long as they hold the castle, they are safe from retribution and well they know it. Help us, my liege. Take back your castle and return the King’s Peace to your loyal subjects of Lincoln.”
“You need not fear,” Stephen said grimly. “This time that renegade whoreson has gone too far, and he’ll soon regret it. Upon that, you have my word.”
IT was late when the Earl of Chester finally mounted the stairs to his bedchamber, and his wife was already asleep. He was irked that she’d not waited up for him, but not surprised, for they’d still not made their peace after their last quarrel.
Impatiently waving aside his squire’s attempts to help him undress, he stripped off his clothes, left them where they landed, and deliberately dropped his boots onto the coffer so they’d make a sleep-rousing thud-in vain, though, for his wife did not stir. Climbing into bed, he started to pull the bed-hangings, but stopped in midgesture, gazing down at the woman beside him.
It was Chester’s considered opinion that his wife had inherited the worst traits of both her parents, for she had Amabel’s barbed tongue and Robert’s sense of moral certainty. She was also the only member of his household who was not afraid of him. She was the first woman who’d ever dared to stand up to him, and he was of two minds as to how he felt about that, or indeed, about this exasperating, prideful, vexing, exciting wife of his. All her virtues were flaws, too, in his eyes. As proud as he was of her royal blood, he was often annoyed by her stubborn loyalty to the aunt whose namesake she was. He admired her courage, admired the way she’d played her part as bait for his trap. But that same boldness of spirit kept her from being a dutiful and submissive wife. Even when she did affect that role in public, he always suspected it was done tongue in cheek.
Reaching for the bed coverlets, he pulled them back so he could look upon his wife’s body, for that never disappointed him. She was a handsome young woman, bearing a striking resemblance to Maude, in both demeanor and coloring. Fortunately, though, she differed from Maude in one crucial aspect of her womanhood. The mere thought of that difference was enough to bring a smile to Chester’s lips. Geoffrey of Anjou had once confided that the best place for a man to come down with frostbite was in Maude’s bed. But his Maud…she was a lustful wench, as hot for their bedsport as he was. Sometimes it even seemed that the more quarrelsome their days, the better their nights.
Sliding over onto her side of the bed, he entangled his fingers in her lustrous, loose hair, while his other hand cupped her breast. Maud opened her eyes, looked up at her husband, and yawned. “Just once I wish you’d let me sleep through till dawn,” she complained, but he could feel her nipple hardening against the palm of his hand, and when he continued to fondle and stroke her body, she soon wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling his mouth down to hers. This was the sort of sex they both liked best, sudden and hungry, with just enough hostility to give it an edge. But their lovemaking had barely begun when they were interrupted by a loud hammering on the door.
Chester raised up on an elbow, aiming a blistering stream of profanity at the door, but his squires were already sitting up sleepily, his mastiff was adding his belligerent bellowing to the din, and the pounding persisted, unabated, accompanied now by demands for admittance. Recognizing the voice as his brother’s, Chester jerked the bed-hangings all the way open, and snapped, “Let him in.” His body might still be quivering with thwarted need, but his brain was back in command. This was trouble.
William de Roumare looked as if he’d been roused from bed, too. He had gone gray while still in his thirties, and his tousled silver hair and ashen skin added at least a decade to his actual age. One glance and Chester felt a chill, for Will was not a man given to panic. Striding toward the bed, Roumare said hoarsely, “The king’s men are in the town, and they come not as friends. Randolph, we are under attack…or we will be at first light.”
Chester swore again, with even more heat. Maud’s eyes had widened, but she said nothing, clutching the sheet to her breasts as she waited to find out their fate. Roumare envied his brother her composure; his own wife was even now having hysterics back in their bedchamber. Chester swung out of the bed, grabbing for the tunic discarded in the floor rushes. “Tell me what you know for sure,” he said, pulling the tunic over his head.
“Some of our men were caught in the town. One made it back to the castle, and he says the streets are full of Stephen’s soldiers. Those accursed townspeople let them in the city gates, damn their souls. Stephen is vowing to see our heads up on pikes, vowing that the siege will last till Judgment Day if need be. Randolph…what shall we do?”
“God rot that misbegotten, meddlesome, bungling lackwit!” Chester said savagely. “He is no more fit to rule than any beggar we’d pluck off the streets, a Beaumont puppet not worth a cupful of wa
rm piss!” But even as he raged, his thoughts were racing ahead, clearly and coldly analyzing their danger, weighing their options.
“I will need two of our best horses saddled and ready to go,” he said abruptly. “I’ll take Padrig the Welshman with me, for once I reach Cheshire, I can send him on into Wales with word for Cadwaladr. He’ll throw in with us if we make it worth his while, and Madog of Powys may, too. Just Padrig, though, for two men will have a better chance of getting through their lines. They must be in disarray, arriving in the middle of the night, and Stephen’s captains will have no hope of imposing order till daylight. If I slip out through the postern gate, I ought to be able to get away unseen. But it has to be done now and done fast. Will, think you that you can hold out till I get back with aid?”
“God Willing,” the older man said somberly. “But we are in a tight corner, indeed. Even if you succeed in getting safe away from the castle-and if I were a wagering man, I’d put my money on Stephen-what then? Mayhap we ought to give thought to surrender-”
“I’d sooner walk barefoot through Hell’s hottest flames!”
“I like it not, either, but think on this, Randolph. We can always talk our way around Stephen. It means swallowing our pride. No man ever died, though, from a serving of humble pie. And what would it avail us to resist? Even if you can summon every last one of our tenants and vassals and add in Cadwaladr’s Welsh hirelings for good measure, we’ll still not have enough men to raise Stephen’s siege.”
“No, we will not,” Chester admitted, “but I know where we can get them.” Striding over to the bed, he caught Maud by the shoulders, claimed her mouth in a brief but passionate kiss. “For all our sakes, girl, let’s hope that your kin are as fond of you as you say!”
The feast of Epiphany was celebrated with great enthusiasm, for not only was it an important festival in its own right, it offered one last burst of brightness in the winter’s dark. On this Twelfth Night, Christians bade farewell to the joy and light of Christmastide, while bracing themselves for the bleakness of the looming Lenten season of sacrifice and self-denial.
Gloucester Castle’s great hall had been newly whitewashed, fresh, fragrant rushes laid down, and enough candles and torches lit to banish all but the most tenacious shadows, for Maude was determined that her Epiphany revelries be perfect in all particulars. Her cooks had prepared an elaborate feast: fresh herring, stewed capon, savory rice, a spectacular roasted peacock refitted with feathers, rissoles of beef marrow, pea soup, Lombardy custard, and nut sweetmeats, served with spiced red wine and hippocras and a sweet white malmsey. Afterward, a French minstrel from the sun-warmed South sang and strummed a gittern and recited verses from a highly popular chanson, The Song of Roland. But his performance was cut short by the arrival of shocking news from the North-that the Earl of Chester had seized control of Lincoln Castle.
No one had any more interest in hearing of Roland’s epic deeds, and for the remainder of the evening, there was but one topic of conversation, speculation about Chester’s duplicity and Stephen’s likely response. Opinion was united on the former, that Chester’s greed had deranged his senses, and decidedly mixed on the latter, some sure Stephen would have to retaliate, others equally certain that he would once again turn a blind eye, as he had done so often in the past. All were hopeful that this astonishing turn of events would somehow rebound to Maude’s benefit.
Robert and Amabel were furious, stunned that Chester would have so risked their daughter’s safety. A woman was expected to defend her husband’s castle if it was besieged in his absence, but it was unheard-of to use a wife as Chester had done, as a decoy. Baldwin de Redvers was likewise outraged, for his younger sister Hawise was William de Roumare’s wife. Their concern cast a pall over the festivities. Robert and Amabel soon excused themselves, intent upon dispatching a messenger to Lincoln at first light, bearing a demand that Chester get their daughter out of that castle straightaway. Miles Fitz Walter was no longer in a festive mood, either; he’d had a quarrel earlier that evening with his eldest son, and both he and Roger were still out of sorts. Once the Fitz Walters had withdrawn, too, there seemed no reason to linger. Maude dismissed the minstrels, and her guests went off to bed.
But Maude was too restless to sleep. She wandered aimlessly about her chamber, failed to find a book that could hold her interest, and finally snatched up her mantle. The great hall was already dark, beds laid out where trestle tables had stood earlier in the evening. Maude moved quietly down the center aisle, out into the inner bailey.
It was cold, but the wind had died down and the starlit sky was clear of clouds. It had snowed earlier in the week, and most of it had been trampled into a dingy grey slush. But white still glistened along the south wall, protected by Maude’s garden fence. Maude liked snow, liked the way it blurred harsh edges and hid ugliness and made the world seem new and pure and pristine. Pushing open the garden gate, she sat down on a wooden bench. Her thoughts soon carried her far from Gloucester, and she started violently when a voice said, very close at hand, “Lady Maude? May I be of service?”
Maude flushed self-consciously; she hated to be caught off guard, to be watched unaware. But the interloper was a man she valued, and she bit back a dismissive retort, forcing a smile, instead. “Thank you, Brien, but nothing is amiss. I just could not sleep. What about you? Why are you not abed at such an hour?”
Brien shrugged. “I could not sleep, either,” he said, and looked pleased when Maude beckoned him toward her bench. He smiled as he sat beside her, and she found herself thinking that she liked his smile, liked so much about Brien Fitz Count-his insight and his loyalty and his competence; everything he did, he did well. He did not intrude now upon her privacy, seemed content to sit in silence, until or if she chose to speak. Maude appreciated his reticence, and soon realized that she did want to talk, after all.
“I had a letter this week from my son Henry,” she said. “His own letter, the first one that was not written for him by his tutor or a scribe…”
Her voice trailed off, as if she’d lost interest, but Brien knew better. He studied her profile, thinking that most women benefited from the more subdued, softer lighting cast by candles or stars, but not Maude. She looked her best in the bright light of day, able to take the sun’s glare full on, without flinching. “It troubled you, this letter?” he asked, and after a moment or so, she nodded.
“Henry asked me if I was ever coming back,” she said, and he thought he heard her sigh. “I’ve not seen my sons for more than a year, Brien, nigh on sixteen months. If this war drags on long enough, I’ll not even know them upon my return. They’ll be strangers…”
He would not trivialize her pain with facile denials or comforting banalities. The truth was that she’d never get back the time she’d lost with her sons. Childhood could not be relived; children grew up, and a quest for a crown could last for years. “To be a mother and a queen, too,” he said at last, “must be a burden no man could fully comprehend.”
“No man needs to understand, for no man needs to bear it,” she said, with more than a trace of bitterness. “What makes it so hard, Brien, is that I see no end in sight. Sometimes I find myself wondering where I will be in five years. Will I still be at Gloucester or Bristol, clinging to my shredded hopes whilst Stephen clings to his stolen crown? All I know for certes is that in five years, Henry will be almost thirteen.”
“I truly believe you will one day reclaim your crown,” he said softly, and she turned to look at him with a brief, bleak smile.
“I do, too,” she said, “most of the time. I am not often so downhearted, for I do not let myself dwell upon my disappointments or defeats. But none of the Christmas news has been good. Lord knows, the tidings from Cornwall have been dismal. Rainald is holding on to the one Cornish castle he has left, but Stephen has the shire, and Rainald’s prospects grow dimmer by the day. He has been excommunicated by the Bishop of Exeter, who blames him for the damage done to a Launceton church, and his wife…Rai
nald tries to make light of it in his letters, Brien, but others tell me the girl was so distraught and fearful at being caught up in the fighting that her wits have been affected. She weeps all the time and hears voices and cannot be left alone lest she do herself harm.”
“I’d heard the lass was…overwrought,” Brien admitted. “But just as those sick of body can heal, so, too, can the sick of mind. You must not give up hope, Lady Maude.”
“I inhale hope with every breath I take,” Maude said ruefully. “But lately it seems that if anything can go wrong, by God, it does. Robert is at odds with his younger son, Philip, as I expect you know; it is no secret that Robert rebuked Philip for being needlessly brutal during the assault upon Nottingham. And now he and Amabel have Maud to worry about, too. Miles is another whose temper is on the raw, and the same can be said for Baldwin de Redvers. In truth, everywhere I turn these days, I see naught but discontented, surly men and fretful wives.”
“What of Ranulf?” he protested. “That lad is cheerful enough to raise all sorts of suspicions!”
“How true,” she conceded. “If Ranulf were a cat, I’d be checking his whiskers for cream!”
They both laughed, and then Maude surprised herself by saying, “You’ve been a good friend, Brien, for longer than I can remember. You helped me get through the worst time of my life, and I never thanked you…not until now.”
She did not need to elaborate; he understood. Their memories were suddenly functioning as one, taking them back more than thirteen years. She had been twenty-five, and no longer able to resist her father’s will, agreeing at last to wed Geoffrey of Anjou. On her betrothal journey from England to Normandy, the old king had entrusted her to the custody of his eldest son, Robert, and his foster son, Brien. They had carried out the king’s charge, escorted Maude to Rouen for the plight troth, and the following year she and Geoffrey had been wed at Le Mans.
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