Reaching over, he gently touched Amabel’s shoulder. As their eyes met, she drew a shuddering breath and covered his hand with her own; her skin was hot and her fingers had a perceptible tremor. When they looked back toward the bed, Robert’s eyes were open.
“Are you thirsty, love?” It was not so much a question as entreaty, so great was Amabel’s need to do something for him. When he nodded, Maude turned swiftly toward the table, poured hastily, and thrust a dripping cup into Amabel’s hand. Ranulf watched as Amabel helped Robert to drink, tears filling his eyes. Robert saw and when his whisper drew Ranulf closer, he said, faintly but distinctly:
“Not…not just my little brother…”
The others may not have understood, but Ranulf did and his throat closed up. Robert was saying what they’d both always known, that the bond between them was more than brotherly. He could have been one of Robert’s own sons, and he would mourn Robert all his days, as he’d never mourned his father.
Swallowing tears, he sought in vain to steady his voice enough to respond. Robert’s eyelids were drooping again and when Maude whispered wretchedly, “Ranulf, we’re losing him,” he could only nod wordlessly. It was then that the door burst open.
A mantled, hooded figure flew toward the bed. “Papa? Papa, it’s me!” Jerking back her hood, Maud turned a white, anguished face toward her mother. “For the love of God, Mama, tell me I’m not too late!”
She sank to her knees by the bed as Robert’s lashes flickered, searching for his hand midst the coverlets. He no longer had the strength to talk, but his eyes sent her the only message that mattered-one of recognition. Maud sobbed in relief, then cried out sharply, “Randolph, hurry!”
That turned all heads toward the door. So intent were they upon the bedside drama, they’d not noticed that the Earl of Chester had followed his wife into the chamber. Dressed in somber colors, his demeanor no less decorous, he greeted Amabel gravely, then stepped forward to pay his respects to his dying father-in-law.
His courtesy was flawless and so rarely seen that his audience could not help marveling at it, for he was not a man to care about propriety. Ranulf and Maude exchanged speculative glances, never doubting that his wife’s grief was not enough motivation to get him to join in Robert’s deathbed vigil. There had to be more to it. And when he turned then, toward Maude, kissing her hand with ostentatious deference, they knew what it was. This was Chester’s dramatic declaration of good faith, public proof that he was now dedicated to the Angevin cause, an ally to be trusted in the war against Stephen.
Maud tore herself away from the bed to embrace her mother. “Randolph,” she repeated urgently, “where is she?” Still playing the role of the attentive husband, he jerked the door open and a moment later ushered a young woman from the stairwell. Maud reached out and when the wet nurse placed a small, swaddled bundle into her arms, she swung back toward the bed. “Look, Papa,” she pleaded, “look at your first grandson!”
Robert did, and even as she saw the light dimming in his eyes, Maud was sure that he’d understood and died trying to smile at her son.
November swept October away in a deluge of early-winter rain, which did not slacken as the week wore on. London began to resemble a city under siege by nature; its citizens ventured out-of-doors only when they had no choice, the streets soon looked like deserted swamps, and the rain-swollen Thames became the enemy in their midst, threatening to flood with each high tide.
A fire roared in the hearth of the king’s chamber in the uppermost story of the Tower keep, but it could not banish the damp, only held it briefly at bay. Although it was midafternoon, the sky was smothered in so many rainclouds that the day’s dull light was already ebbing away, and Stephen, his wife, and William de Ypres had pulled their chairs close to the fire.
“I took care to mention no names, Will, but I’ve been consulting physicians about your…” Stephen paused tactfully. “…your problem.”
“No need for such delicacy, my liege. Say it straight out, that I’m fast going blind.” Ypres smiled as he spoke, but it was a smile to make both Stephen and Matilda wince.
“But that is just it, Will,” Stephen said earnestly. “There might be hope for you. According to the doctors, there is a means of treating your sort of eye ailment. You’re losing your sight because a film is forming over your eyes, like a cloud passing across the sun. By taking a needle-preferably a gold one-and sticking it into the white part of the eyeball, on the edge of what they call the…the cornea, it is possible to pierce the film. And once the pupil becomes black again, you’ll regain your sight.”
Stephen had carefully memorized what the doctors had told him, so that he might properly explain it to Ypres. But he saw now that his efforts had been wasted. Matilda could not repress a squeamish shudder, and Ypres was shaking his head with another of those ghastly, grimacing smiles.
“I’ve heard about that procedure,” he said. “It is usually performed by traveling doctors, who go from town to town offering their services to those in need of miracles. Sometimes it even seems to work and the patient can see again-at least long enough for the doctor to collect his fee and move on. No, my liege, it was good of you to bother on my behalf, but I’d have to be crazed as well as blind ere I’d let any man plunge a needle into my eye.”
“I’ll admit it sounds stomach-churning, Will, but I wish you’d at least talk to the doctors. We could send to Arundel for Adeliza’s physician, a man named Serlo, said to be as good a healer as you’ll find in all of England. Or there is Robert Beaumont’s physician, known as Peter the Clerk-”
“No.”
Even then, Stephen would have persevered had he not caught Matilda’s eye. “As you wish,” he said reluctantly. “There is just one more thing I want to say, and then we’ll speak no more on it. I value your counsel, Will, no less than your sword-arm. There is probably not a man alive who knows more than you do about battle lore and siege warfare. When you first revealed your ailment, you said you might go back to Flanders. I would hope that you’ll stay here, where you are so needed.”
It was one of the few times they’d seen the Fleming with his defenses down, reacting without the jaded cynicism that served so well as his shield. He cleared his throat, faked a cough, and muttered gruffly that he’d stay, then. Matilda rose, let her hand rest lightly on his shoulder for a moment, smiling over his head at her husband.
The door banged open without warning, so loudly that they all jumped. “I’ve been looking all over the Tower for you, Papa!”
“Eustace! We thought you were staying in Winchester for another week, lad.”
“I was, but-”
“Eustace, you’re soaked clean through! Come over to the fire and dry off.”
Eustace frowned impatiently but allowed his mother to steer him toward the hearth. When she insisted then that he remove his wet mantle, Stephen intervened with a grin. “I think the lad has something to tell us, Tilda, for he looks about to burst. Go on, Eustace, give us your news.”
“Did you hear about Robert Fitz Roy?”
“That he is ailing?” Stephen nodded. “Yes, we heard, but-”
“He is dead,” Eustace interrupted, unable to wait any longer. “Papa, he is dead!”
They did not react as he’d hoped. Instead of being jubilant, they seemed dubious. “Are you sure, lad?” Stephen asked slowly. “When I was stricken with that fever at Northampton, rumor had me dead and buried about twice a day till I recovered, and-”
“This is no rumor. Uncle Henry sent a spy to Bristol to find out if his malady was life-threatening, and he well-nigh rode his horse to death getting back with his news. Robert died on Friday last, the 31st of October, soon after Compline. The entire town is in mourning, people weeping in the streets and grieving as if they’d lost their Holy Saviour-the fools!”
“I’ll be damned,” Ypres murmured; he and Robert were of an age, and the sudden death of his old adversary was an unwelcome reminder of his own mortality. Shaking it off, he f
orced a laugh. “And it was not even my birthday!”
Eustace laughed, too. “I’ll get us wine,” he offered, “so we can celebrate in proper fashion.” On balance, he was disappointed by their tepid response to such momentous news. His mother was making the sign of the cross, and his father had yet to say a word. Eustace glanced gratefully at Ypres; at least he understood. Raising his cup, he said, “Let’s drink to Robert Fitz Roy…and his speedy descent into the hottest depths of Hell!”
“Robert is not likely to go to Hell, lad,” Stephen said. “For all our differences, he was a man of honour.”
“Honour?” Eustace echoed indignantly. “What honour is there in trying to steal our throne? Jesu, Papa, do you never speak ill of anyone? I suppose you’d even find some good to say of the Devil!”
Stephen lowered his wine cup to stare at his son. “I’d hardly equate Robert Fitz Roy with the Devil,” he objected, sounding more hurt than angry. “A man can be our enemy, Eustace, and still be a decent sort.”
Eustace’s lip twitched. He seemed about to retort when Ypres said coolly, “Fitz Roy was a worthy foe. We can be glad that he is dead without making a monster of him.” Eustace flushed and gulped the rest of his drink. Matilda could not help noticing that he was stung by Ypres’s rebuke, not Stephen’s, and she sighed softly.
“That poor woman,” she said, and her son looked at her in disgusted disbelief.
“Not you, too, Mama! Jesus God, how can you muster up even a shred of pity for Maude after all she-”
“Watch your tone when you speak to your mother!”
Matilda reached over, putting her hand on her husband’s arm. “I do not think Eustace realized how rude he sounded…did you, Eustace?” she said evenly, waiting until he gave a shamefaced shake of his head. “As it happens, I was not speaking of Maude. I was thinking of Robert’s widow. After forty years as the man’s wife, she must be utterly bereft.”
A strained silence filled the room. Stephen glanced from one to the other, not liking what he found. His wife looked very pensive, a sure sign she was troubled; Ypres was deliberately noncommittal, and Eustace was sullen. Stephen’s eyes lingered on his son. Without meaning to, they’d let the lad down. He’d come hell-for-leather from Winchester with his news, thinking he was bringing them a wonderful gift, only to have them not even bother to unwrap it.
“This is a day we’ll always remember,” he said, as heartily as he could. “Your news changes everything, lad. Chester’s defection no longer matters now, for Maude is burying the one man she could not afford to lose. Her claim to the English crown breathed its last when Robert did. It is over. At long last, it is over.”
37
Devizes, England
January 1148
“So it is over…just like that? No regrets, no looking back, sail off into the sunset-what a simple way to end a war! A pity we did not think of this ere so many men died for you, but better late than-”
“Ranulf, enough!” Maude was livid. “I did not say it was over. It will never be over, not as long as I draw breath, and you, of all men, ought to know that. But we can no longer remain in England, and you ought to know that, too. Dear God, Ranulf, do you think I want to go? Back to Normandy, back to Geoffrey? What more proof can you have of my resolve than this-that I am forcing myself to do something so repugnant? This is a strategic retreat, not an abdication.”
“You can talk all you want about continuing the fight from Normandy, but that is what it is-just talk. If we flee England, we are conceding defeat, conceding the crown to Stephen!”
“That is not so! I would never abandon my son, never!”
“Harry has Geoffrey to fight for him in Normandy. He needs you to fight for him in England! But you’ve grown weary of war, tired of the struggle.”
“No!”
“Then why are you using Robert’s death as an excuse to give up, to run away? If you do that, then what has it been for-the sacrifices and the battles and the dying-all for what?”
Maude was stunned by the attack. She’d never seen him like this, all nerve ends and raw rage. “You are not being fair, Ranulf! Whether you want to admit it or not, Robert’s death changed everything!”
“Mayhap for you, but not for me.” When she would have argued further, he flung up his hand. “There is nothing more to be said. If you are set upon deserting those who fought and bled for you, I cannot stop you. But do not expect me to follow you, and do not expect me to forgive you.”
She stared after him in shock, too angry and hurt to call him back.
Rainald was still groggy, for he’d not slept well the night before. “Maude, you’re not making sense. You say he is gone? Gone where?”
“If I knew that,” she said impatiently, “I’d not need your help. After you went up to bed last night, Ranulf and I had a terrible argument. I told him that I dared not remain in England now that Robert was dead. The dangers are so obvious; it never occurred to me that he might not understand. But he flared up in a wild rage, accused me of betrayal and cowardice and God knows what else, and then slammed out of the room as if it were on fire.”
Rainald blinked sleepily. “You’re still not making sense. Ranulf has always had a good head on his shoulders. Surely he sees how precarious your position has become. I like Will well enough, but he could no more fill Robert’s shoes than he could get himself elected Pope. Brien has a plateful of his own troubles, and that whelp of Miles’s is too green to be much help in fending off Stephen. Ranulf knows all that, not being a fool. So why is he balking?”
“Ranulf…is in a lot of pain,” Maude said reluctantly; she did not feel she had the right to give away Ranulf’s secrets.
Rainald nodded knowingly. “He always did think Robert could walk with the angels. But why are you so distraught about all this? So you quarreled and he went off in a sulk. He’ll be back once his temper cools and then-”
“No,” Maude interrupted, “I do not think he is coming back. He said nary a word to me. He just rode away at first light, was long gone by the time I sought him out to make our peace.”
“What makes you think he is not coming back?”
“He gave his dogs away.”
Rainald sat up abruptly. “Are you sure about that, Maude?”
“He gave his breeding pair to Hugh de Plucknet and his young bitch to Luke. He took only Loth, and rode away without a backward glance. Now you tell me, Rainald. Does that sound like a man who’s just gone off to sulk?”
“No,” he admitted, “no, it does not. Well…what we must do is figure out where he is likely to have gone. You gave him several manors here in Wiltshire, so we ought to send a man there first. What about that friend of his, Gilbert Fitz…whatever? Ah, no, he was killed; I forgot. Wait-I have it! I’ll wager that we’ll find him at Chester with Maud.”
“And if he is? What then?”
“I go and bring him back, of course.” After a moment to reflect, though, Rainald realized how impractical that would be. “I guess I cannot drag him back by the scruff of the neck,” he conceded. “So…what do you want to do?”
“There is not much I can do, Rainald. If we can find him, I can write and entreat him to return. Otherwise, I can only hope he’ll come back of his own accord.”
“You dare not wait too long, Maude.”
“I know,” she said, “I know…”
Maude stood on the battlements of Arundel Castle, watching as Rainald rode away. A grey February fog had rolled in from the sea, and he and his men were soon swallowed up in it. Maude did not move, though, until Adeliza tugged at her arm, urging her back inside.
Maude had chosen to sail from Arundel so she might bid Adeliza farewell. It was also a closing of the circle, a means of punishing herself for her failure, ending up where she had begun.
Adeliza was embroidering as they talked, her needle flashing in the firelight. Maude had offered to help, but now her own sewing lay forgotten in her lap. The more she studied Adeliza, the less she liked what she saw.
The other woman was pale, even for February, and alarmingly thin; always inclining toward the voluptuous, she seemed almost gaunt now. Maude’s first reaction was to ascribe these troubling changes to the travails of the birthing chamber. In the eleven years since she’d wed William d’Aubigny, she’d been almost constantly pregnant, giving birth to seven surviving children and two stillborn.
“You are not with child again, are you?” Maude asked uneasily, for at Adeliza’s age-her own forty-six-childbed was all too often a woman’s deathbed, too. Adeliza cast her an oddly secretive, sideways look, then shook her head. “But you are ailing,” Maude persisted, and this time she got no denial. Adeliza sewed in silence for several moments while Maude waited to see if more information would be forthcoming. When it was not, she reached over and touched the other woman’s wrist. “I’ll not pry,” she promised, “but whatever you choose to tell me will never leave this chamber.”
Adeliza continued to stitch, but color had risen in her cheeks. They were speaking German, the language of their youth, and the words themselves called up memories of an old intimacy. “Did I ever tell you, Maude, about the Flemish monastery founded by my lord father? It is at Affligham, near Alost, has a house for monks and one for nuns. My brother has written to me that he is thinking of taking holy vows there. It is my heartfelt wish to do the same.”
Maude was speechless, so great was her surprise. It was not at all uncommon for widows to retire to a convent to end their days. But Adeliza was a wife and a happily wedded one, or so Maude had thought. And if she renounced the world, she’d be renouncing her children, too, the youngest still a babe in her cradle, the oldest not yet nine. Maude could easily understand a woman’s urge to abandon the marital bed. So, too, could she comprehend the appeal of the cloister, so orderly and serene and reassuring in its very simplicity. But she could never have turned her back upon her children-not even for God.
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