“How ill? Ancel…how ill?” Ranulf repeated tensely, for it had not escaped him that Ancel had yet to meet his eyes.
“That is for the doctors to say, not me,” Ancel said evasively. “But Lord Robert said…he said for you to make all haste. He said not to tarry.”
Ranulf sucked in his breath, for he understood then what Ancel was so loath to tell him. They thought his father was dying.
WHEN Ranulf had assured Robert that Bernay was just a day’s ride from Rouen, he’d stretched the truth somewhat; it was thirty miles, more or less, and indeed a hard-riding traveler could cover the distance in one day—a summer’s day. Travel on rutted and icy winter roads was a far riskier and slower venture. Ranulf knew, though, that he was racing Death, and he and Ancel spurred their horses without regard for their safety, making their way by glimmering lantern light as darkness fell. When they halted, it was only to rest their lathered mounts. But their reckless, breakneck dash through the frozen December countryside still took them all night and most of the following day. They reached the hunting lodge at dusk, only to learn that Ranulf’s father had died at dawn.
HAVING completed his prayer for his father’s soul, Ranulf got stiffly to his feet and stood staring down at his father’s body. Henry seemed at peace; Ranulf had been assured that he’d died in God’s Grace, shriven of his sins by the Bishop of Rouen. Ranulf fervently hoped it was so, but his treacherous memory refused to cooperate, conjuring up shadows of his father’s blinded, maimed granddaughters, the ghost of a king slain mysteriously in the New Forest, a brother’s body abandoned in the woods whilst Henry raced for Winchester to claim a crown. Even if his father had sincerely repented all his earthly misdeeds, a lengthy stay in Purgatory seemed a foregone conclusion.
It was odd; he could have been looking upon a stranger. Why was he so calm, so queerly detached? He felt exhausted, numbed, regretful that he’d not been able to bid his father a final farewell. But his sorrowing was muted; his eyes were dry.
The door opened quietly behind him. Robert looked tired and tense, but composed. Ranulf glanced at his elder brother, then back at the dead man, thinking of Adeliza, his father’s queen. Would she weep for Henry? Would any eyes? It was a disturbing thought, that a man could wield great power as God’s anointed on earth, he could rule an empire, and yet leave none to mourn him when he died.
“People will say they grieve for him,” he said softly, “but they will be lying. He’ll be forgotten even ere he is buried, for men’s thoughts are already turning to tomorrow, to Maude. It sounds mad to say this, Robert, for I knew he would die one day, and I knew, too, that he’d not change his mind about the succession. So why does it come as such a surprise?”
“That he should die? Or that Maude should be queen?”
Ranulf considered. “Both, I think.”
Robert was quiet for a time. “In that, lad, I’d wager you’re not alone,” he said, and Ranulf turned, gave him a startled, searching look, half fearful of what he might find. If even Robert was so troubled by their sister’s coming queenship, it did not bode well for Maude, for England. Men might not mourn his father, but there’d be many who’d dread his death, dread the unsettled times that lay ahead.
“I’ve been praying for Papa, Robert. But mayhap we ought to be praying, too, for Maude,” he said, sounding so uneasy and so earnest that Robert reached out, let his hand rest briefly on the boy’s arm, a gesture that Ranulf found both surprising and bracing, for Robert was as reticent as Maude about open displays of affection.
“I think, lad,” Robert agreed, “that it would not be amiss to pray for Maude. And whilst you are at it, pray, too, for England.”
ANGERS, the ancient capital of Anjou, was bisected by the River Maine. But the heart of the city beat upon the east bank, for there was to be found the abbey of St Aubin, the great cathedral, and the hilltop castle where generations of Angevin counts had dwelled and died. It was toward the castle that Ranulf rode, bringing his sister Robert’s letter, bringing the news of their father’s death.
Maude already knew. Ranulf saw that as soon as he was ushered into the great hall. She wore the somber shades of mourning, and her demeanor was solemn, as befitting one newly bereaved. But her eyes were as dry as Ranulf’s own. She welcomed him with the aloof dignity that public decorum demanded, her pleasure at seeing him revealed only in the slight curve of her mouth, the alacrity with which she suggested that they withdraw to her private chamber.
Once they reached her bedchamber, Maude sent a servant for wine and then turned to Ranulf, taking his hands in hers. “I am so glad that you’ve come,” she said. “Were you with Papa when he died?”
“No,” Ranulf said regretfully, “but Robert was,” and he handed her their brother’s letter. Because he did not know what Robert had written, he told Maude then what he had learned about their father’s death. “He was stricken on Monday eve, the 25th of November, after eating a heaping plateful of stewed lamprey eels, and died early the following Sunday.”
Maude had begun to read Robert’s letter, but at that, she slanted a sudden glance in his direction. “Lamprey eels,” she said, shaking her head. “The doctors warned him time and time again that he ought not to eat them. Of course he paid them no heed.”
Neither of them took notice of the opening door, assuming it was a servant with the wine.
“Well, if it is not the little brother.”
The voice was low-pitched and would have been very pleasing to the ear if not for the suggestion of smugness, echoes of the mockery that insinuated itself into Geoffrey’s every utterance; Ranulf doubted that he could even pray to the Almighty without sounding disrespectful. “The sight of you gladdens me, too, Geoffrey,” he said sourly, for he’d long ago learned the futility of squandering courtesy upon Maude’s husband.
Geoffrey seemed amused by Ranulf’s sarcasm; it vexed Ranulf enormously that his sister’s husband never took him seriously enough to quarrel with. He watched sullenly now as Geoffrey sauntered over, grazed Maude’s cheek with a careless kiss, while glancing covertly at the letter she held open in her hand.
Maude casually shifted the letter. “Did you want anything in particular, Geoffrey?”
“Why, I was looking for you, dear heart,” he said blandly. “I was told your brother had arrived. Alas, I was not told that it was the wrong brother.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I should think my meaning would be obvious. Robert ought to have come himself rather than send this green lad. You are, after all, more than his right beloved sister now. You’re to be his queen.”
It infuriated Ranulf to hear himself dismissed as a “green lad,” for the age difference was not that great; he was seventeen to Geoffrey’s twenty-two. Even more did he resent the slur upon Robert, and he said hotly, “Robert still had duties to perform for our father. He had to escort the body back to Rouen, and then go to Falaise, for my father had instructed him to withdraw sixty thousand pounds from the royal treasury to pay the wages of his servants and soldiers and give alms to the poor, that they might pray for his soul.”
Geoffrey’s mouth quirked. “If he thought to bribe his way past Heaven’s Gate, I daresay he found that even sixty thousand pounds would not buy him prayers enough. He’d have been better off spending the money to earn himself some goodwill amongst the Devil’s minions.”
Ranulf gasped, but Maude put a restraining hand upon his arm. “You would know more about pleasing the Devil than most men. The counts of Anjou trace their descent from Lucifer’s daughter, do they not?”
Geoffrey was not offended. “Her name is Melusine.” Seeing their blank looks, he added helpfully, “The Devil’s daughter who wed one of my ancestors—her name was Melusine.”
“I have the utmost trust in Robert,” Maude said, very coolly, and Geoffrey’s smile became a smirk.
“You trust the sainted Robert. You trust Cousin Stephen. You trust young Ranulf here, and God knows how many others in that flock of bastard
brothers of yours. Dear heart, it pains me to say this, but you’re as free with your trust as a whore is with her favors, and you run the same risk that the whore does, for men hold cheaply what comes to them too easily.”
“The same can be said for your advice, Geoffrey. I might value it more if you offered it less.”
Geoffrey’s eyes narrowed, and Ranulf shifted uncomfortably. All his sympathies were with Maude; it still was no fun, though, to be caught in their crossfire. But at that moment a servant entered with the wine, dispelling some of the tension. Geoffrey and Ranulf drank in a less than convivial silence as Maude conferred with the servant. Once the man had withdrawn, she smiled at Ranulf. “Since you missed dinner, I’ve instructed the cooks to prepare an uncommonly lavish supper this eve in your honour. I told them to serve baked pike stuffed with chestnuts, for that is a favorite of yours, no?”
Ranulf nodded, pleased that she should have remembered. But Geoffrey’s brows shot upward. “Shall you be up to it? You must not be alarmed, Ranulf, if your sister bolts the hall in the midst of the meal. Other women suffer from morning sickness when they are breeding, but Maude is, as ever, a law unto herself, and her queasiness comes at night!”
Ranulf swung around to stare at his sister. “You are with child?”
Maude nodded, and Geoffrey moved to her side, striking the playful pose of a proud father-to-be. He might even be sincere, Ranulf allowed grudgingly, for to give the Devil his due, Geoffrey did seem fond of his sons. As he looked at them now, Ranulf could not help admiring the picture they presented, for whatever else might be said of them, they made a very handsome couple.
Handsome was a word often applied to Geoffrey, for not only was he taller than most men, he’d been blessed, too, with an athlete’s build and a cat’s grace. His hair color was a bronzed reddish-gold, his eyes a compelling shade of blue-grey, fringed with thick, tawny lashes, eyes agleam with sardonic humor, boundless confidence, and a sharp, calculating intelligence, yet not a hint of warmth.
As for Maude, Ranulf had to acknowledge that her youth was gone, for she was thirty-three, past a woman’s prime. But her age had not yet impaired her ability to turn male heads. Like Annora, she’d been cursed with unfashionable coloring: she had inherited her father’s dark hair and eyes. But she was more fortunate than Annora in that her skin was fair and flawless, and her features so finely sculptured that none could deny her beauty; no man looking upon the high curve of her cheekbones or the red fullness of her mouth was likely to care that her eyes were brown.
Indeed, a handsome couple. But did they think so? Did they find each other as desirable as others found them? For a moment, Ranulf tried to imagine what it would be like, making love to a woman he loathed. It was not an appealing prospect, and he decided that he’d not have traded places with Geoffrey or Maude for all the crowns in Christendom. How lucky he was to have Annora, to—Suddenly becoming aware of the silence, he saw that they were staring at him, and he flushed in embarrassment, looking hastily away lest they somehow read his mind.
“Well? Are you not going to offer your congratulations?” Geoffrey was shaking his head, as if lamenting Ranulf’s bad manners, but Ranulf had an uncomfortable suspicion that his brother-in-law knew what he’d been thinking. He stammered an apology, belatedly wished them well, and was greatly relieved when Geoffrey headed for the door.
As soon as they were alone, Ranulf smiled at his sister, eager to make amends. “I am right glad about the babe,” he lied. “When is the birth?”
“Not for months yet, not till the summer.”
Her smile did not linger, and Ranulf found himself wondering if she feared the coming birth. He did, for certes, remembering that harrowing week in Rouen. That was not something he could ask her, though. A faint frown had settled across her brow; the brown eyes were opaque, inward-looking. But then she said briskly, “The timing could not have been worse, could it? The English are already skittish about being ruled by one who wears skirts. Somehow I suspect the sight of a swelling belly beneath those skirts is not likely to reassure.”
As always, Ranulf was impressed by her candor. “Well,” he said, “they shall have to get used to it. And I may as well confess that I’m looking forward to watching as certain high-flying lords get their wings clipped!”
So was Maude. “Anyone in particular?”
“The Earl of Chester, amongst others. He’s made no secret of his reluctance to take orders from a woman. Think how gladdened he’ll be to grovel before one great with child!”
“Chester is not a man to grovel, lad, not even to God. But he will pay me the debt he owes his sovereign, one of obeisance and fealty and homage. They all will.”
Ranulf felt a surge of admiration, strong enough to let him forget his own past qualms about her queenship. How many women could face such a formidable challenge with so much fortitude? For that matter, most men would have been daunted, too, by the demands that were about to be made upon his sister. “Your coronation will be but the beginning. Your greatest trials will be still to come. Maude…does it not scare you at all, knowing the troubles that lie ahead?”
“Scare me?” she echoed, sounding genuinely surprised. “Ah, no, Ranulf, I do not fear. I know it will not be easy. I know there will be men who’d be content that I merely reign, not rule. But I will rule—by God, I will. The Crown of England is a burden and a blessing and my birthright. To me, it means…”
She paused, and Ranulf waited, curious to hear how she would complete the sentence: power? duty? opportunity? But then she smiled, a smile he would long remember, for it was the smile of a hopeful, eager young girl, not a woman widowed and disenchanted and wretchedly wed. “It means,” she said, “freedom.”
SUPPER that evening was as sumptuous as Maude had promised. Her cooks had to confine their menu to fish, for the season of Advent was upon them, but they did themselves proud with Ranulf’s pike, gingered carp, white trout in mustard sauce, almond rice, roasted apples, marzipan, and cinnamon wafers, all washed down with ample servings of spiced red wine, hippocras, and malmsey.
Afterward, Maude told Ranulf of her plans. She meant to depart on the morrow for Normandy. The Vicomte Guigan Algason had sent word that he wanted to do homage to her for his holdings in Argentan, Domfront, and Exmes. She would be pleased, she added, to have Ranulf at her side upon her entry into Argentan. Ranulf assured her that he would be honored to witness Algason’s submission to his new duchess, and then asked, as tactfully as he could, if Geoffrey would be accompanying them. To his vast relief, Maude said that Geoffrey had agreed—for the present—to remain in Angers.
Ranulf could not say so, of course, but he thought that was a shrewd tactical move; the Norman barons would be much more likely to acknowledge Maude’s suzerainty if she was not encumbered by the unwelcome presence of her detested Angevin husband. Thank the Lord Christ that Geoffrey was choosing to be so accommodating, to get Maude’s reign off to the best possible beginning. But how long was his cooperation likely to last? And how could they stop him when he decided to take his rightful place at her side as husband, consort,…or even, God forbid, king?
“I have been trying to decide which of my lords I can rely upon and which of them will seek to take advantage of me if I let them. Hear me out, Ranulf, and see if you agree with my conclusions.”
Ranulf nodded, enormously flattered that Maude should see him as a worthy confidant. “I’m no soothsayer, but I’d wager I can name the chief prop of your throne,” he predicted, unable to resist this small jab at Geoffrey. “Robert.”
“Robert,” Maude echoed, “Robert first and foremost. And then my uncle David; I am indeed blessed that my lady mother was sister to the Scots king. There are others, too, who will do whatever they can to make my throne secure. My cousin Stephen, of course. Stephen’s elder brother Theobald has rarely set foot in England; his interests are firmly rooted in his own domains. And the youngest brother, the bishop…he is too ambitious to be truly trustworthy. As for our brothers, Ra
inald is quite able, can be of great help as long as he reins in that runaway temper of his. And then there is Brien Fitz Count. You remember Brien, do you not, Ranulf?”
Ranulf thought he did. “The lord of Wallingford Castle?”
Maude nodded. “He is a good friend of Stephen’s, and like Stephen, he is a man of honour. He was utterly loyal to my father, treated almost as a foster son, and I trust he will be just as loyal to me.”
Geoffrey had drifted over in time to catch Maude’s declaration of faith in Brien Fitz Count. “There is that word again—trust. Passing strange, how often it crops up in your conversation, dear heart.”
Maude’s mouth thinned, but a cease-fire, however precarious, was to be preferred to outright marital warfare; that was a lesson she’d learned the hard way. “Then,” she said, “to please you, Geoffrey, we shall now speak of those I do not trust. The Earl of Chester. His half-brother, William de Roumare. That self-seeking constable of the Tower, Geoffrey de Mandeville. Waleran and Robert Beaumont.”
“Ah, yes, the Beaumont twins, double trouble.” But Geoffrey’s humor was wasted on Ranulf, and Maude was turning away to hear a servant’s murmur.
“A messenger has just arrived,” she said, “from England, from Brien Fitz Count. Did I not tell you that Brien would be amongst the first to declare his allegiance to his queen?”
Left alone with Geoffrey on the dais, Ranulf concentrated upon his wine cup, trying to ignore his brother-in-law’s amused gaze. But Geoffrey was impossible to ignore. “So…tell me, Ranulf, have you forsworn eating lamprey pie ever again? It is one of my favorite dishes, I confess, but it would have been in bad taste, I suppose, to have served it tonight—so soon after your father’s unfortunate eel encounter.”
Ranulf gritted his teeth until his jaw ached. Geoffrey was entertained by his silent struggle for control, but he knew it was a losing battle, knew how easy it would be to fire the lad’s temper—almost too easy, for it was already smoldering. He was getting ready to fan the flames when Ranulf stiffened, half rose in his seat. “Maude?”
When Christ and His Saints Slept Page 12