“You think not? Go to the window, then. Your escort is waiting below, ready to see you safe into Normandy or Hell or wherever else you care to go.”
“For God’s sake, Geoffrey, this is madness! You’ve not thought this through. The Church will not annul our marriage; we have no grounds. You’ll not be able to wed again. Neither one of us will. What will you do for an heir?”
Moving to the table, he poured himself a breakfast beverage of watered-down wine. “If it comes to that, I suppose I can wait for you to die, dear heart. The only benefit of having such an older wife is that you’re not likely to outlive me, are you?”
“This is nothing to joke about! What of your father? He’ll be enraged if you commit this folly and well you know it!”
“I expect so,” he acknowledged airily. “But Jerusalem is a long, long way from Angers. It’ll be months ere he even hears.”
“My father is not in Jerusalem,” she snapped. “What of his rage?”
“That is your problem, dear heart, not mine,” he said, and smiled at her.
It was like looking at a stranger. He even sounded different; there was malice in his tone but no anger. Maude was at a loss, not knowing how to deal with this new Geoffrey, defeated by this odd mixture of boyish flippancy and adult resolve. “So be it,” she said at last. “I’ll not beg.”
“A pity,” he said, “for that would have been one memory of our marriage I might have cherished.” The smile he gave her was lighthearted, quite genuine. Moving past her to the door, he said, “Well, I’m off to the hunt. It would be sporting of you to wish me luck. I wish you Godspeed and a safe journey. But Maude…do be gone by the time I get back tonight.”
He didn’t bother to close the door; she could hear him whistling as he started down the stairs. Maude stood very still, listening to the sounds of his receding footsteps in the stairwell, the fading echoes of his jaunty tune. God in Heaven, what now?
IN early September, Maude arrived at her father’s royal manor at Quevilly, in the parish of Saint-Sever on the outskirts of Rouen. The king was no longer in Normandy, though, having returned to England in July. Writing to her father was one of the most difficult tasks Maude had ever faced. It left her pride in tatters, lacerated and raw. But she had no choice. Her father had to know how Geoffrey had abused her, how miserable he’d made her. If he understood that, he might not blame her for the breakup of her marriage.
After dispatching a letter to her father at Windsor, Maude then had a confidential, candid, and disheartening discussion with Hugh d’Amiens, the new Archbishop of Rouen. He confirmed what she already knew: that the Church recognized but three grounds for dissolving a marriage—a previous plight troth, a blood kinship within the seventh degree, or a spiritual kinship such as godparent and godchild—and that Geoffrey and Maude could satisfy none of them. Which meant, Maude later confided bitterly to Minna, that she was chained to Geoffrey as surely as if he’d cast her into an Angevin dungeon and clapped her in irons. As wretched as their life together had been, all she could hope for was that he might relent and take her back. If he did not, her father’s dynastic dreams would be destroyed, and so would her own dreams of queenship, for Henry would not keep her as his heir if she could not give him a grandson.
She’d always liked Rouen, but now she hated it. Heads turned and whispers began each time she ventured into the city’s streets. She found it intensely humiliating, knowing that she was the object of so much gossip, much of it salacious, her broken marriage the butt of alehouse jokes and crude tavern humor. But worst of all was the suspense, the silence from England as the weeks passed. She wrote again, and after that, all she could do was wait for her father’s response.
It came at last on a rain-chilled October eve. Maude and Minna were seated before the solar hearth, playing a game of chess. Maude glanced up as the door opened, expecting a servant, and found herself gazing at her eldest brother and his wife.
“Robert, thank God!” Maude was not demonstrative by nature, but now she flung herself into Robert’s arms and even embraced Amabel, although the two women had nothing in common except Robert. “Why did you not let me know you were coming? How the sight of you gladdens me! You…you do know about Geoffrey?”
“Yes,” he said, “that is why I am here.” There was a brief delay while Robert and Amabel exchanged pleasantries with Minna and wine was served. But as soon as they were alone, Robert took a sealed parchment from a pouch at his belt and silently held it out to her.
He watched sadly as Maude read their father’s letter, saw the color fade from her face, only to flood back as she continued to read, and then ebb away again. Raising wide, stricken eyes to his, she said, “Papa blames me, Robert. He says it is all my fault.”
“I know.”
“This is so unjust! Did he not get my letters? Did he read them?”
When he nodded reluctantly, she reached out and caught his arm. “Then he knows how Geoffrey maltreated me! What did he say to that?”
“I do not remember, lass,” he said, no longer meeting her eyes.
“Robert, tell me!”
Still he said nothing. It was Amabel who finally told Maude what her husband would not. “He said, Maude, that you’d likely brought it upon yourself.”
Maude stared at her sister-in-law, then swung back toward her brother. “He truly said that?”
“He was in a rage, Maude. When men are angry, they are careless, ofttimes say what they do not mean—”
“No,” Maude said, “not Papa. He never says what he does not mean.” She was badly shaken, and it showed. “How can he be so uncaring? How can he take Geoffrey’s side over mine?”
“Maude, he is not doing that.”
“No? It certainly sounds that way to me! But I am not the one who murdered our marriage. It is Geoffrey’s dagger buried in the body, for it was Geoffrey who cast me out. What would Papa have me do? Beg him to take me back? This was not my fault, Robert. Why could you not make Papa see that?”
“Ah, Maude…” He glanced at her, then looked away, and it was then that Maude saw the truth.
“My God,” she whispered. “You, too? You think I am to blame?”
“Maude, it is not a matter of blame. I am not defending Geoffrey, in truth I am not. But I would to God it had never happened, that you—”
He broke off, but not in time. “Go on,” Maude challenged. “Finish the thought, Robert! What ought I to have done? Suffered in silence? Let him beat me black and blue without complaint?”
“You know better than that,” he said quietly. “This serves for naught. We can talk in the morning when you are not so distraught. But for now, I think it is best that we bid you goodnight.” Stepping forward, he kissed her upon the cheek and then paused, as if waiting for her to speak. She did not, and he turned toward the door. Amabel followed.
Maude moved to the hearth. She was suddenly so cold that she’d actually begun to shiver. When the door opened, she did not turn, assuming it was Minna. But it was Amabel.
“There is something I would say to you, Maude. You must not blame Robert. This was not a mission of his choosing. His father commanded him to come. He would never willingly hurt you, and you ought to know that by now.”
“All I know is that I was the one wronged. I am here because Geoffrey banished me from Anjou. So how is it that I am at fault? Suppose you tell me, Amabel. You’ve never been at a loss for words!”
“Indeed, I do speak my mind. And I will now, woman to woman. I do agree that you have been wronged. If your marriage was a ship, Geoffrey was the one who ran it upon the rocks. But you ought to have seen this coming. A ship does not sink with no warning. Why were you not aware that it was taking on water? In all honesty, I do not understand how you botched this so badly. You are a beautiful woman, Maude. Why you could not bedazzle or bewitch a lad of fifteen—”
“How dare you pass judgment on me! Does Robert ever hit you? Does he boast openly of his bedmates? Take pleasure in your pain? Unless you c
an answer those questions with a yes, you cannot know what my marriage was like, and you have no right to criticize me!”
“There is truth in what you say,” Amabel admitted. “But there is truth in what I said, too, and for your sake, I hope you can see that in time. Sooner or later, Geoffrey will take you back. Surely you know that? Your father is not about to let a headstrong cub thwart his will or undo his carefully crafted plans for the succession. Geoffrey will come to his senses; the king will see to that. And when he does, I hope you’ll remember what I said this night.”
“Go away, Amabel,” Maude said, and although her sister-in-law looked aggrieved, she did. Maude still clutched her father’s letter, crumpled within her fist. She smoothed it out now, but did not reread it. Instead, she thrust it into the hearth. A scorching smell filled the room as the parchment caught fire, began to smolder. She watched it burn, not moving until it was engulfed in flames.
3
Chartres Castle, France
February 1133
“TO know Scriptures is to know God’s Will,” the Bishop of Winchester declared, with utter certainty. “And Scriptures say: ‘Permit not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence. For Adam was first formed, then Eve.’ How much more clearly can it be put than that? A female king is not only a contradiction in terms, it is an abomination unto the Lord, and it must not come to pass.”
In appearance, the bishop was unprepossessing, but he had a rich, resonant voice, and had justly gained himself a reputation for stirring oratory. His latest effort was wasted, though, upon this particular audience. To the rest of Christendom, Henry of Blois was a respected prince of the Church, one of England’s youngest bishops, clever and cultivated and a likely candidate to wear one day the mitre of Canterbury’s archbishop, for he was known to stand high in the favor of his uncle the English king. But to Theobald, Count of Blois and Champagne, and Stephen, Count of Boulogne and Mortain, he was still their younger brother, and his impressive adult successes would always be competing with memories of the child he’d once been, awkward and precocious and obstinate, a lonely little figure chasing after them down the byways of their boyhood, never quite catching up.
No one hearing Henry could doubt the sincerity of his convictions, but Theobald had no great interest in the succession to the English throne. For some years now, he had quite competently ruled the prosperous domains he’d inherited, first from his father and then from his uncle—Blois, Chartres, Sancerre, Châteaudun, Meaux, and Champagne—and he was pragmatic enough to be satisfied with what God had given him. Stephen, too, was content with his lot in life; his marriage to Matilda de Boulogne had brought him both wealth and happiness. Unlike Theobald, though, he could not afford to be indifferent to English politics, for he held vast English estates. But he was not comfortable with Henry’s harangues about their cousin Maude; they stirred up too many doubts, too much unease.
When a servant entered the solar with word of a guest’s unexpected arrival, Theobald was quick to make his escape, hastening down to the great hall to welcome their cousin the Earl of Gloucester. Stephen developed a sudden, unlikely desire to greet Robert, too, but Henry would have none of it, insisting that he remain, and Stephen sank down in his chair again, trapped by his reluctance to be rude.
Henry was not troubled by Theobald’s defection, for his argument had been aimed at Stephen. Seeing that he was about to resume his homily upon Maude’s unholy queenship, Stephen sought to head him off with humor.
“What I cannot understand,” he said, “is how you can be so convinced that women are such inept, frail, hapless creatures. What of our lady mother? Until Theobald came of age, she governed Blois for him, did she not? And for all that she humbly signs her letters these days as ‘Adela, the nun of Marcigny,’ we both know she has that poor prioress utterly cowed, rules the nunnery as surely as ever she did Blois. Moreover, I’d wager that once she gets to Heaven, she’ll not be there a week ere she has the Almighty Himself on a tight rein!”
Henry was not amused. “Do not blaspheme, Stephen. Our mother is unlike other women, and well you know that. But even she would not dare to claim a kingdom as Maude does.”
Stephen doubted that exceedingly, saw no point in saying so, though. During his boyhood, Adela had often remarked, “How like your father you are,” and he’d known even then that she’d not meant it as a compliment. But there was no question as to which of their parents Henry took after, he thought, for nothing less than an Act of God could deflect him from his purpose. He was already drawing breath to continue his sermon, and Stephen had no liking for sermons.
“What of our oaths?” he interrupted. “I swore to accept Maude as queen when our uncle dies. So did you, Henry. So did we all. Or has that somehow slipped your mind?”
“How could you have refused?” Henry demanded, had his answer in Stephen’s silence. “None of us could, for our uncle is not a man to be defied. Need I remind you that an oath given under duress is not binding in the eyes of Holy Church?”
They’d had this discussion before, more times than Stephen could count. “Do you remember that embroidered wall-hanging in our mother’s bedchamber? The one that depicted her father’s conquest of England? It faced the bed, so it would be the first thing she saw every morn, the last thing at night. I’ve wondered at times if our father was ever tempted to set it afire…”
His brother was frowning. “For God’s sake, Stephen, why are we speaking of a wall-hanging in our mother’s bedchamber? How is that relevant?”
“I just hope she bequeathes it to you, Henry, for no one could cherish it more. Can we call a halt to the invasion plans…at least for tonight? In truth, I do not feel comfortable with this conversation. I’m fond of Maude and I—”
“You are?” The bishop sounded astonished. “Why?”
“Is it truly so surprising? Maude has candor and courage and”—Stephen grinned—“it does not hurt that she is so easy on the eyes! Moreover, I cannot help pitying her plight, shackled for life to a husband she loathes.”
“So her marriage is less than perfect,” Henry said impatiently. “All marriages have rough patches.”
“‘Less than perfect’? Try ‘hellish.’ She is miserable with the man, and who can blame her? First Geoffrey shames her before all of Christendom by packing her off to her father as if she were defective goods. Then he changes his mind two years later and decides that mayhap he can put up with her after all—no great surprise there, for how many wives bring along a crown as their marriage portion? So he writes to her father, who calls a council to discuss Geoffrey’s demand, and they all agree that she must go back to Anjou. But one voice seems to have been missing from this great debate: Maude’s. Does it not strike you as odd, Henry, that our uncle would make her queen, and yet give her no say whatsoever in the matter of her own marriage?”
The only thing odd to the bishop was his brother’s peculiar way of thinking. Stephen always seemed to be wandering off the road onto paths he alone could see. Henry was fond of Stephen, but he did not understand him at all, constantly baffled and frustrated by what he saw as Stephen’s overly sentimental and impractical approach to life. Theobald would have been his first choice, but Theobald had so far shown even less enthusiasm than Stephen. Oh, he’d likely take the crown if it were dropped into his lap. But the bishop had long ago learned that a man must fight for what he wanted in this life. His uncle could not be allowed to carry out this mad gamble of his. For a gamble it was, one that put both England and Normandy at risk, that might even imperil the Church itself. And he was not going to let that happen, by the Rood, he was not. He would see Stephen crowned in spite of himself if need be, and as his reward for saving England from Maude’s disastrous queenship, he would claim the Church’s most influential see, that of Canterbury. A crown for Stephen, an archbishop’s mitre for himself: a fair trade for thwarting an old man’s unforgivable folly.
“Of course Maude ought to have gone back to Geoffrey,�
� he said, marveling that he must waste time in pointing out the obvious. “A wife must obey her husband. And that is but another reason why Maude must never be allowed to claim the English throne. Who amongst us would want to be ruled by Geoffrey of Anjou?”
To Henry’s intense annoyance, Stephen laughed. “I know Maude better than that!”
“Our lady mother agrees with me,” Henry said, and Stephen’s laughter stopped abruptly. “I have visited her at the nunnery in Marcigny, and she sees matters as I do. By claiming the crown, you would be serving God and the English people, whilst bringing glory to your family’s name. A crown, she said, will do honour to our father’s memory, rid it of a lingering blotch, the shame he suffered at Antioch—”
“I should think,” Stephen said, “that he expiated any and all sins by dying as he did at Ramleh.”
There was a surprising edge to Stephen’s voice, for it was a longstanding family joke that his anger was like a bear denned up for the winter, all but impossible to bestir. He’d gotten to his feet, and the bishop said hastily:
“Those were our mother’s words, not mine. For all her virtues, she is overly prideful, and I’ll not deny it. I respect your doubts, for this is not an undertaking to be entered into lightly. Take the time you need to consider what I’ve said. But I would ask you one question, and I want you to answer me honestly, without jesting or evasions. Can you truly tell me, Stephen, that you believe Maude could rule England and Normandy as well as a man could…as you could?”
Stephen did not want to answer, but his brother was implacable, appeared willing to wait as long as necessary. “No,” he said at last, “I do not.”
“Nor do I,” Henry said, not firing the most formidable weapon in his arsenal until Stephen reached the door. “Do you think often of the White Ship?”
Stephen stopped, his hand on the door latch. “Our sister drowned in that wreck. Of course I think of it.”
When Christ and His Saints Slept Page 6