While Marshal’s new marriage had made him an object of curiosity, Brien Fitz Count was the one attracting the most attention, the heartiest congratulations, and the most lavish-if puzzled-praise. Brien had just proved that he could wield a pen as well as a sword on Maude’s behalf; he had written a political treatise in support of her quest for the crown, marshaling arguments like armies as he sought to discredit Stephen’s kingship. He was, of course, preaching to the converted, but his efforts had been well received even by men of scholarly bent, such as Gilbert Foliot, the erudite abbot of Gloucester’s great abbey. The others were impressed, but bemused, too, by Brien’s foray into such alien territory; with the exception of Robert and himself, Ranulf doubted if there was a man in the hall who’d even read a book in its entirety certainly not for pleasure. Tonight, though, they were all claiming to have read Brien’s, counting upon his good manners to keep him from putting them to the test.
Watching as Brien shrugged off compliments with self-deprecating humor, Ranulf felt sympathy stirring, for he knew only one opinion mattered to Brien; his book may have been offered to the world, but it was meant for Maude. She had already thanked him, circumspectly, for his wife had accompanied him to Devizes and never strayed far from his side. It occurred to Ranulf that Brien’s renowned courtesy was camouflage for a profoundly unhappy man. There had always been a streak of melancholy in his nature, even in the best of times. How must it be for him now-a man of honour forced outside the law to feed his people, an idealist with no faith in his fellow men, ruining himself for a woman he could never have and a cause that, however worthy, was soaking England in blood.
Ranulf drew in his breath sharply; looking into the depths of Brien’s soul, he’d looked, too, into his own. He at once repudiated the vision. It was true that smoldering images of Cantebrigge had not faded from his memory. But as much as he lamented the suffering of the English people, he still believed Maude’s cause was just, her war could be won. And he and Annora would not be like Brien and Maude, lovers left with nothing but regrets for what might have been. No, by God, that would not be their fate, too. He would not let himself lose hope, not like Annora.
Ranulf could not deny, though, that his mood was far from festive. Sometimes he could feel his faith slipping away from him, and he feared the day when he could not hold on. It was no coincidence that he framed his thoughts in Annora’s words; six months afterward, he was still haunted by her confession, her miscarriage, and the realization that she had wanted the child-even if it were not his. Looking around for a wine bearer, he took refuge, instead, in the happiness of a friend, hastening over to join Gilbert Fitz John and his wife.
Even a stranger could have guessed that Gilbert and Ella were newly wedded, for the glow had yet to fade. Often a landless knight was never able to wed, unable to provide for a family. But Gilbert’s marriage had been made possible by Ranulf’s persuasive tongue and Maude’s generosity. Unable to bestow an earldom upon her youngest brother, she had compensated as best she could by giving him lands under her control in Wiltshire. When he’d asked for a manor on Gilbert’s behalf, she had agreed, and Gilbert and Ella were wed in November, just before Advent. Gilbert’s bride was so like him that they could have been siblings. Ella was as good-natured and practical and easily satisfied as her new husband, and they were mirror images-male and female-of each other, both of them fair-skinned, freckled redheads, tall and sturdy and perfectly matched.
“Why so downhearted?” Gilbert asked before Ranulf even opened his mouth; he’d always been able to read Ranulf with ease. “The news from Anjou is not bad?”
“Not at all. Geoffrey swiftly put down the rebellion and he’s now giving his rebel barons reasons aplenty to rue their folly. Apparently Helie thought he’d be able to talk his way out of trouble, but Geoffrey has never been one for forgiveness. He cast Helie into a dungeon at Tours, and is likely to keep him there until Helie goes grey…
He seemed to lose track of his thoughts, and his sentence trailed off. Following his gaze, Gilbert saw that he was staring at a newcomer to the hall. “You know that man, Ranulf?”
“Yes, I do. He is in my niece’s service.”
Gilbert was astute about shaded meanings. “You are saying he is loyal to her, not Chester?”
Ranulf nodded. “Maud has her own attendants, most of whom came with her from Robert’s household at the time of her marriage. They are utterly devoted to her, none more so than Nicholas. I’m surprised that she’d give him so simple a task as delivering a letter to her parents. He always seemed the sort,” Ranulf joked, “to be skulking around at midnight on life-or-death missions.”
As they watched, Nicholas was ushered toward Robert and Amabel. Within moments, it was obvious that something was wrong. When Robert started toward Maude, Ranulf hastened to intercept him. But before Ranulf could speak, Robert said in an urgent undertone, “Not now, lad. Meet me in my chamber after the guests have gone to bed. And till then, say nothing.”
That was hardly reassuring. Ranulf watched uneasily as Robert drew Maude aside for a brief colloquy, one that left her looking tense and preoccupied. When he sought her out he got only a whispered, “Not here, Ranulf…later.” After that, Ranulf could only wait and worry.
Ranulf was puzzled by the composition of the after-hours council: Robert and Amabel, Maude, Rainald, and Brien. If Robert’s news was a family matter, why include Brien? And if it was political, why were Baldwin de Redvers and John Marshal and Roger Fitz Miles excluded?
Robert was leaning back against a trestle table, Amabel at his side. “I know my behavior must have seemed odd tonight, but what I have to tell you cannot leave this chamber. Until it is common knowledge, we can say nothing, lest my daughter be put at risk. She has sent us a secret warning. After the Christmas revelries, the Earl of Chester and his brother are journeying to the town of Stanford, there to make their peace with Stephen.”
Rainald swore explosively. Brien was close enough for Ranulf to hear him suck in his breath, but he said nothing, keeping his eyes upon Robert and Maude. Ranulf was astounded, for he knew, if any man did, how much Chester scorned Stephen. “Why? Why now?”
“Maud says that after Faringdon Castle fell, Chester concluded that Stephen cannot be overthrown. He decided to make the best deal he could, whilst Stephen still needed him as an ally.” Robert’s shoulders had slumped; his face looked pinched and grey in the subdued light. “My son Philip acted as the go-between,” he said heavily, and no one spoke after that, not knowing what to say.
The silence was full of foreboding; they all knew what this unholy alliance could mean. Chester’s holdings rivaled the Crown’s; nigh on a third of England lay within his domains. Ranulf rose and began to prowl the chamber. His sister was standing utterly still in the shadows, so none could see her inner turmoil. Ranulf glanced toward her, and then away. With Chester as an active ally, Stephen seemed likely to prevail. Henry would not be left with nothing, for even if Maude did fail, Geoffrey had not. The duchy of Normandy would one day be Henry’s. But Ranulf knew that would not be enough for Maude, not ever enough. Her own dreams were dead. Ranulf did not think she could bear to see Henry’s dream die, too.
32
Chester Castle, England
June 1146
After opening St Werbergh’s Fair on her husband’s behalf, Maud and her guests returned to the castle for dinner. When coaxed by the women, Ranulf agreed to escort them back to the fair once the meal was done. But it was hard to muster up much enthusiasm for fairgoing, not when he kept remembering that a year had passed since the last fair, another year lost. How could he blame Annora if her faith sometimes faltered?
Servants were ladling venison stew onto their trenchers. Breaking off a chunk of bread, Ranulf glanced over at his niece. “So…how is the grand alliance going?” While that still sounded faintly sarcastic, it was considerably more tactful than his usual description of Chester and Stephen’s peace-as a Devil’s deal.
Maud smiled into he
r napkin before saying demurely, as befitting a dutiful wife, “My poor Randolph…he has exerted himself tirelessly to prove his good faith-first taking Bedford Castle for Stephen and then assisting Stephen and Ypres to build a stockade at Crowmarsh so they could cut off supplies to Wallingford. But even after all he’s done, he says that Stephen’s barons are still wary and suspicious.”
“I wonder why,” Ranulf said dryly. But his humor was hollow; he did not find anything amusing in Chester and Stephen’s accord. It was far too dangerous to be laughed away, as Brien could testify, after a harrowing spring under siege. “Have you heard about Philip’s latest outrage?”
Maud’s lip curled contemptuously. “Philip who?” she said coolly.
“Your black-sheep brother seems bound and determined to dishonour himself beyond redemption. I’m sure you know that Maude and Robert offered to negotiate with Stephen? We hoped we might be able to take some of the pressure off Brien…to no avail. Stephen granted Rainald a safe-conduct to come to his court; that was the only concession he was willing to make, though. But Philip saw a chance to wreak more havoc and ambushed Rainald on his way to Bristol, took him prisoner, and brought him back to Stephen’s court in chains.”
“How treacherous,” Annora interrupted, “and how shameful!”
“Stephen agreed with you. He was infuriated that Philip should have dared to defy his safe-conduct and he released Rainald at once. Rainald returned home in high dudgeon, vowing vengeance upon Philip if it takes a lifetime, and Philip…I suppose he went off to sulk.”
Maud shook her head scornfully. “My brother Will always claimed Philip was a changeling, and more and more, I do believe him. This I can tell you for certes, Ranulf-that God might one day forgive Philip for the pain he has inflicted upon our family, but I never shall.”
Ranulf and Maud lapsed into a morose silence after that, and Annora hastily cast about for a new topic, one distracting enough to keep them from dwelling upon Philip’s betrayal. “Is it true that the Church is preaching a new crusade?”
Ranulf’s attention was immediately caught and he nodded vigorously. “On Easter Sunday at Vezeley, in Burgundy, the Abbot of Clairvaux read a papal bull urging all Christians to rescue the Holy Land from the infidel. Thousands thronged to hear him speak, and the French king was amongst the first to take the cross.”
“A pity Stephen was not stricken, too, with crusading fever,” Maud said wryly. “In truth, I can think of any number of lords whose souls would benefit from a sojourn in the Holy Land. I am surprised, though, that Louis is so keen to go. The last time Randolph’s brother was in Paris, he said Louis could not bear to have Eleanor out of his sight. How will he cope once a thousand miles stretch between them?”
“Fortunately for Louis,” Ranulf said with a grin, “his beautiful queen has taken the cross, too.”
Maud was startled, but not astounded, for women had participated in the First Crusade. Some had been loyal wives, others less reputable, for even God’s army had attracted its share of camp followers. As a girl, Maud had loved to hear tales of these female pilgrims, women braving hardships and danger for the same mixed motives that drew men to the Holy Land-the curious and the devout, the daring and the pious, the wanton and the faithful, seeking God’s Grace or gold, salvation or adventure. Maud could not say which of these categories Eleanor of Aquitaine fit into. She knew only that she felt a sharp surge of envy, a hunger to leave the familiar behind, to strike out boldly toward the unknown as the young French queen meant to do.
Annora’s reaction was far different: disbelief and then painful disappointment. She’d long idealized Eleanor, the only woman who seemed able to hold her own in a man’s world. They were almost of an age-Eleanor just two years younger-and she’d reveled in Eleanor’s triumphs, admired her independent spirit, and when faced with difficult decisions, she’d silently ask herself what Eleanor would have done. This was the first time that her idol had let her down, and she frowned at her cooling stew, her appetite gone. “But Queen Eleanor just had a baby last year,” she pointed out plaintively, half hoping the reminder would prod Ranulf into admitting this was another of his dubious jests.
Her lover gave her a questioning smile, and she saw her point had eluded him. “Her baby,” she repeated, more forcefully. “Eleanor has an infant daughter now. I would not think she’d want to leave her babe so soon, not after so many years of a barren marriage…”
This elicited only a shrug, more male incomprehension. Nor did Maud seem to understand, either, for she laughed when Ranulf quipped that he doubted Eleanor could find the nursery without a map. Annora knew, of course, that queens were not expected to be doting mothers; circumstance and protocol and practicality all conspired to distance a royal mother from her child. The babe would be suckled by a wet nurse, swaddled and comforted and cuddled by servants, a royal pawn to play in the marriage game, for daughters were often betrothed before they could walk, bred to be brides for foreign princes. Annora supposed it was possible that a queen might prefer not to get too attached to a child she was soon to lose. But she’d still expected more from Eleanor, the same devotion she would have given to a babe of her own.
Neither Ranulf nor Maud noticed her preoccupation, and were soon talking about the Bishop of Winchester’s latest feud, this one with no less a personage than the Archbishop of Canterbury; Bishop Henry blamed the latter for the Pope’s refusal to reappoint him as a papal legate. Annora spooned her stew listlessly, paying the conversation no mind until she heard her own name.
A servant was nearing their table, announcing that a man had just ridden in, asking to see Lady Fitz Clement. As her eyes met Maud’s, Annora nodded, but she felt a sudden unease, for only her husband knew she was at Chester, and she’d been gone less than a week, not long enough for him to be writing to her-not unless something was wrong. Borrowing some of Ranulf’s optimism, she sought to convince herself that all was well with her father, brothers, stepchildren, husband, and dog in the endless interval before the servant ushered the new arrival into the hall.
Maud was signaling for the final course of fruit-filled tarts as she caught her first glimpse of Annora’s visitor. One glimpse was all she needed, so strong was the family resemblance. Even before she heard Annora’s strangled cry of “Ancel!” she’d realized that this enraged, swarthy stranger was Annora’s brother, and she hastily sought Nicholas’s eye, sending him a surreptitious message to be on the alert for trouble.
Ranulf and Annora sat, frozen in their seats, as Ancel strode toward the high table. After one burning glance at Ranulf, Ancel aimed his accusing gaze at his sister. Ignoring Maud and the others in the hall, he said abruptly:
“I had business in Shrewsbury for my lord earl and thought to surprise you. I was the one who got the surprise, though, for your husband informed me that you were off visiting your ‘dear girlhood friend,’ the Countess of Chester. I found that puzzling, for as far as I knew, you’d never even laid eyes upon the woman. But as I was sitting there, listening to that poor fool Gervase boast that you and the countess were closer than sisters, one of your stepsons came running into the hall, chased by a Norwegian dyrehund.”
Ancel’s eyes flicked then, to Ranulf. “Did you think I’d forgotten about those accursed dyrehunds of yours? Outside of Norway, that is a beast as rare as the unicorn. But I still fought against facing the truth. All the way to Chester, I kept trying to convince myself that I was wrong, that my suspicions were unjustified. In my heart, I knew I was befooling myself, but I…” His mouth twisted, he took a great gulp of air, and then lashed out, “I did not want to believe that my little sister was a whore!”
“Ancel, enough!” Ranulf pushed his chair back, coming swiftly around the table toward the other man. “We need to talk,” he said, “but not here. Let’s find some privacy-”
He got no further; it was then that Ancel lunged at him. Caught off balance, Ranulf reeled backward, crashing into the table. He would later figure out that he hit his head upon one of
the trestle legs. Now, dazed and bleeding, he knew only that he was thrashing about in the floor rushes, trying to keep Ancel from throttling him.
The table had gone over, spilling food into the laps of the startled diners, setting off so much screaming and swearing that the entire hall reverberated with angry clamor. Loth had been scavenging under the table for scraps. With a muffled roar, he fought his way clear of the tablecloth’s smothering folds. Fortunately for Ancel, though, Maud had enough presence of mind to grab the dog’s collar as he erupted from the wreckage. Annora had been splashed with hot gravy, but she did not yet realize she’d been burned, so intent was she upon reaching Ranulf and Ancel.
By the time she did, it was over. Nicholas and several of Maud’s household knights had pounced upon Ancel, pried his fingers from Ranulf’s throat, and dragged him away. Annora gasped at her first sight of Ranulf, for he was bleeding profusely. Snatching up a napkin, she pressed it to his gashed forehead. By now Luke was there, too, and between the two of them, they helped Ranulf to his feet.
“Are you bad hurt?” Maud paused only long enough to assure herself that Ranulf’s cut was superficial before launching her assault upon Ancel. “How dare you force your way into my home and attack my kinsman? Just who do you think you are-an avenging angel from Hell? This is none of your concern-”
“My sister is shaming our family! But what would you know of dishonour? No decent woman would make herself an accomplice to adultery. Only another slut would-”
Ancel never saw the blow coming. Nicholas moved in, quick as any cat, burying his fist in Ancel’s midsection. As Ancel groaned and doubled over, Nicholas brought his knee up, with lethal aim. It was as brief and efficient and brutal a beating as Ranulf had ever seen, over before he could react, before many in the hall even knew what was happening. It confirmed all of Ranulf’s suspicions about Nicholas, made him wonder what such a man was doing in his niece’s service.
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