“He survived the battle.” Geoffrey de Mandeville’s words were still echoing in Matilda’s ears, fraught with menace. Would they dare put Stephen to death? She felt as if her head were filled with silent screaming, but she could not let herself think of Stephen’s peril, not yet. Her younger children needed her. They were weeping, clutching at her skirts, terrified by her distress, their brother’s frenzy. Matilda held them close, murmuring soothing sounds until they quieted, clung less frantically. Constance was hovering nearby, trembling and on the verge of tears, in need of comfort, too. And Eustace…she’d have to find Eustace once he calmed down.
But then what? No one would help Stephen if she did not. But how? Dear God, what was she to do?
15
Gloucester, England
February 1141
MAUDE had been waiting more than five years for this confrontation with Stephen. It had gotten her through some of her worst moments, those wakeful nights when her faith was faltering and despair hovered in the shadows. She had envisioned the scene over and over again, until it began to seem as if she were reliving a memory rather than anticipating one. She would be seated upon a dais, dressed in scarlet silk, wearing the emperor’s emeralds, a gold coronet substituting for the crown that would soon be hers. The hall would be expectant, but respectful, as it had been at the German court. And then Stephen would be brought before her in chains. He would not grovel, not even in her imagination; she knew him too well to expect that. But he would be contrite, for surely she had the right to demand that much?
But when it finally came, this long-awaited reckoning, it was not at all as she had hoped it would be. It went wrong from the very beginning, for they arrived a day early, on Sunday night. Maude had already retired to her own chamber and was making ready for bed when Ranulf came racing up the stairs and pounded on her door. “Maude, dress yourself,” he panted, “and make haste, for Robert has just ridden into the bailey!” He then whirled and plunged down the stairs again, leaving Minna speechless at such a blatant breach of royal etiquette.
Maude was less surprised; as much as she loved Ranulf, she’d long ago concluded that his sense of decorum was deplorable. She had no time, though, to fret about her brother’s flawed manners, no time to select the jewelry and fine clothes she’d planned to wear. Instead of dressing with her usual meticulous care, she found herself hurriedly snatching up her discarded chemise and gown, then gartering her stockings while Minna attempted to rebraid her hair. Grabbing a veil, she was still adjusting it as she emerged, flushed and breathless, from the darkened stairwell into the torch-lit brightness below.
The hall was a scene of chaos. The other women had not been as punctilious about propriety as Maude, and had hastened downstairs in various stages of undress. Everywhere she looked, she saw unbound hair, bare feet, husbands and wives entwined in joyful, welcoming embraces. Her entrance went almost unnoticed in the confusion, and it was several moments before Robert disentangled himself from Amabel’s arms and shoved his way through to her side. Maude reached out, taking his hand in hers. “Thank you,” she said, “for winning back my throne.
“Thank you all,” she added, raising her voice to be heard above the clamor filling the hall, her gaze moving from Robert to Miles and then, briefly, to Brien. They looked tired and wet and travel-stained, but triumphant, too, and one by one, they came forward to receive her praise, Miles and Brien and Baldwin de Redvers and William Fitz Alan, these men who’d wagered their futures upon her queenship, wagered and won.
It was some time before Maude was able to ask Robert the obvious question. “What of Stephen? When will he be brought in?” The answer she got was totally unexpected.
“Oh, he’s already here in the hall. I could not very well leave him out in the rain, could I? Shall I find him for you?”
Maude stared at him in dismay. “Good God, Robert, you’re not letting the man wander about on his own, are you? What if he escapes? What if—”
“Maude, he is being guarded,” Robert said patiently. “Look…there he is, over by the door.”
Maude spun around, saw Stephen was indeed standing by the door, flanked by his guards, like a guest politely waiting to be noticed by his hosts. “Bring him to me,” Maude ordered, but she could not wait for her command to be carried out. She could not wait another moment, and she began to push through the crowd toward Stephen.
Stephen was not looking his best; his mantle was muddied, his head was bandaged, and his eyes were bloodshot, so smudged by shadows that they seemed bruised. He stiffened as Maude approached, but showed no other signs of unease. Maude halted in front of him and waited, silently daring him to defy her, for she could imagine only two possible responses: defiance or submission. But Stephen found a third way: courtesy. “Lady Maude,” he said, and before she realized what he meant to do, he reached for her hand and brought it to his mouth.
Maude was outraged. It was repentance she wanted, not gallantry. Jerking her hand away, she said scathingly, “I am not the lady of the manor come to bid you welcome. I am your sovereign, and I expect you to show me the respect due your queen, I expect you to kneel!”
Stephen sought to remain impassive, but he could not keep the color from rising in his face. By now it was very quiet, all eyes upon them. “As you wish,” he said, and slowly knelt before her.
She’d won, but somehow it did not feel like a victory. Maude glanced around at the encircling men. They were watching intently, too intently, and she wondered suddenly if they were remembering Stephen’s magnanimous gesture at Arundel. Turning toward Robert, she demanded, “Why is this man not in irons? If the theft of a crown does not warrant it, what crime does?”
“I did not think it necessary,” Robert said, rather stiffly. “He gave me his word that he would not attempt to escape, and so—”
“His word?” Maude echoed derisively. “Is that the same word that he pledged to me when he swore to accept my queenship?”
Stephen had gotten to his feet, although she had not given him permission to rise. She wanted to protest, to force him back onto his knees. She wanted to order him clapped in irons, as he so deserved. But she was stopped by what she saw in the faces of the watching men: disapproval, instinctive and involuntary, but disapproval, nonetheless. They were not comfortable when power was wielded by a woman, not at a man’s expense, a man who had just acquitted himself so spectacularly at Lincoln, winning their reluctant respect in a way she knew she never could. The brotherhood of the battlefield, she thought, feeling a sharp sense of betrayal as she looked about at the silent spectators. These were her kinsmen, men who’d sacrificed and bled for her cause. If even they doubted her right to rule as a man could, how would she ever convince the others?
It was a bitter moment for her, gazing upon her defeated rival as her triumph threatened to turn to ashes before her eyes. But no, she’d not let that happen. She would prove to them that she was worthy to rule. She knew what her father would have done, and she would show them that she was her father’s daughter, England’s true queen—by God, she would.
“I want this man put under close guard,” she said, “and I want it done now.”
STEPHEN was steeling himself for confinement in one of the castle dungeons. He was relieved to find that his prison was to be a small but comfortable bedchamber in the keep, albeit with a guard posted at the door. This was the first time he’d been alone since the Battle of Lincoln, and he lay down upon the bed without shedding his clothes, grateful for the solitude.
He’d known that his encounter with Maude would be a daunting one, and so it was, for he found it very disquieting to have a woman as his enemy. He could not deflect her hostility with defiance, as he had with Chester. His dealings with Robert were free of rancor, for they both knew what was expected of them under the circumstances. Not so with Maude. None of the rules of warfare seemed to apply, for Maude neither knew nor cared what they were.
His scene with Maude had been unpleasant, but surprising, too, in a
way he had not foreseen. Maude and he shared the same inability to camouflage their emotions, and the emotions he’d read on Maude’s face were anger, frustration, and chagrin, not triumph. If he had not enjoyed their confrontation, neither had she. Much to his astonishment, he’d even felt a flicker of pity for her plight, for he’d suddenly seen the truth—that there would be no winners in their war. He was facing lifelong confinement at Bristol or Gloucester, and Maude was about to discover that her English subjects still did not want her as queen. She was blazing a trail on her own, and there in the great hall at Gloucester Castle, he’d realized that she did not even have a map. Whatever happened to him, he doubted that she’d reach Westminster.
Stephen folded his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. But it made no sense, not that he and Maude should both lose. A ship with no helmsman would soon founder, and so would England. How could that be part of the Almighty’s Plan? Was it possible that he’d been too quick to conclude that he knew the Lord’s Will? What if his loss at Lincoln was not God’s Judgment upon him? Mayhap the Lord God had not abandoned him, after all. The Almighty had seen fit to test Job, so why not His servant Stephen? Mayhap that was why he’d lost the Battle of Lincoln—so that he might prove his faith was strong, that he was indeed worthy to be England’s king.
This was the first glimmer of light in the dark that had descended upon Stephen’s world at Lincoln. The loss of hope had been a crueler loss even than his crown, for he’d never known what it was like to live without hope—not until this past week, riding as a prisoner along the muddy winter roads of his own realm. Stephen needed hope as he needed air to breathe, and he lunged toward the light. It did not take much to convince him; he was halfway down the path toward conviction by the time he heard voices at the door.
He was sitting up on the bed as the door opened. His guard stepped aside, and Stephen smiled at sight of Ranulf, beckoning him inside as if he still had that right.
Ranulf seemed ill at ease, as if he’d somehow ended up in Stephen’s chamber through no doing of his own. “I…I just wanted to see if you need anything.”
Stephen considered. “Well, how about a fast horse and a head start?” he suggested, and Ranulf grinned, pleased by this proof that Stephen’s sense of humor had not been one of the casualties of Lincoln, after all.
“I’ve no horses to spare,” he said, “but I do not come empty-handed,” and with a dramatic flourish, he unhooked a wine flask from his belt, holding it aloft.
“Sir Ranulf to the rescue,” Stephen joked. But when Ranulf passed him the flask, he put it down, untasted. “There is something you can do for me, lad. Persuade Maude to let me write a letter to my wife. Matilda must be half mad with worry by now.”
“I’ll ask Maude,” Ranulf promised, wishing he could promise more. But he was remembering the obdurate look on his sister’s face, and he was not at all sure that she would heed his plea, for he suspected that Stephen was the last man in Christendom likely to receive any favors from Maude.
LONDON’S justiciar and the leaders of the city’s guilds came to the Tower to bid farewell to Stephen’s queen, and to assure her again that Londoners were still loyal to her husband. Soon after, Geoffrey de Mandeville arrived, ostensibly to wish Matilda Godspeed on her journey to safety in the south of England. But he was not long in revealing the real purpose of his visit. As sorry as he was to see her go, he said, he understood that it was for the best. “I do think, though, that the little Lady Constance ought to stay here at the Tower.”
Matilda stared at him. “I do not agree. My daughter-in-law’s place is with me.”
Geoffrey de Mandeville smiled and shook his head. “I can protect her, madame, make sure that no evil befalls her in these troubled times. I owe her brother that much.”
Her brother. The French king. Matilda understood now. “You are indeed kind to worry about Constance,” she said, as steadily as she could, “but there is no need, I assure you.”
“Ah, but I insist,” he said, still smiling. Matilda looked at him—so elegant, handsome, and urbane—and she had to fight the urge to cross herself, suddenly sure that she was in the presence of true evil.
MATILDA had chosen Guildford as her refuge, a fortified castle in the heart of the North Downs. It was only thirty miles from London, but they were braving February weather at its worst, and they did not reach the Wey Valley until dusk on the second day. The sky was dark and foreboding, the wind as cold and desolate as the future they faced in Maude’s England. It took some time before Matilda was able to get her family settled, still longer before she could slip away to the chapel, for the younger children literally clung to her skirts these days, and although Eustace rebuffed all her attempts at comfort, he watched her constantly with bewildered, needful eyes.
The chapel was deserted, but that was what Matilda wanted most: time alone. She was so tired, in body and soul, drained by the need to be strong for her children, her household. Only at night could she give in to her fears, and even then she dared not let herself weep for Stephen, afraid that once she started, she could not stop.
Moving forward into the chancel, she sank to her knees before the candlelit altar. “Lord God Almighty, into Thy Hands and those of Thy Blessed Son I commit myself. Holy Father, hear my prayer. My husband is in great peril, forsaken by those who had most cause to be true. I would help him if only I could, but I do not know how. Show me the way. I beseech Thee, Dear Lord, to send me a sign. Reveal unto me Thy Will.”
Breathing a shaken “Amen,” she got slowly to her feet. But she was not yet ready to take up her burden again, and she lingered there in the quiet castle chapel, trying not to think of Constance’s tear-streaked face. That hellspawn Mandeville would not harm her; Matilda knew that. But their parting had been wrenching, the child’s piteous sobs echoing in her ears even after they’d escaped the Tower. For that was how Matilda saw their departure—as an escape. She did not doubt that Mandeville would have kept them all there, hostages to win Maude’s favor, if not for the Londoners. But public opinion was still on Stephen’s side, and even Mandeville dared not risk the Londoners’ wrath by seizing Stephen’s wife and children.
She’d discussed with Cecily the advisability of taking her children to Boulogne, but she was loath to leave England and she could not bear to be separated from them. If only there were someone she could turn to, someone she could trust. Stephen’s brother Theobald would be sympathetic once he learned of Stephen’s downfall, but what could he do at a distance? He could not rally support for Stephen, not from Blois. The bishop could, though. A prince of the Church, a papal legate, lord of some of the most formidable castles in England, he should have been her natural ally, but she’d not yet heard from him; her plea for help had so far gone unheeded. Just like Waleran Beaumont and William de Ypres and those other craven wretches who’d fled the field at Lincoln, she thought bleakly. Stephen’s brother was abandoning him, too.
Had Stephen gotten her letter yet? She’d sent a courier to Gloucester, for where else would he be taken? Surely Maude would give him the letter? She could not be so cruel as to withhold it…could she? Matilda had begun to pace, as if trying to outrun her fears. What lay ahead for Stephen? Maude would not dare put him to death? No, God would not let that happen. Nor would Robert, surely? Stephen’s life was not at risk; she must believe that. But he would be buying his life with his freedom, for they would never let him go. The old king had confined his elder brother for nigh on thirty years. His daughter was not likely to be any more merciful to Stephen.
Caught up in her own thoughts, she was slow to realize that she was no longer alone. A man was standing in the shadows, watching her. “Father Paul?” she asked uncertainly, for the silhouette did not resemble that of the portly chaplain. When he moved forward into the light, she recoiled abruptly. “You!”
William de Ypres strode toward her. “I must speak with you, my lady.”
“You dare to face me after what you did! My husband trusted you an
d you betrayed him!”
The Fleming had not thought Stephen’s queen capable of such anger. “I know.”
“How could you abandon him after all he’d done for you? You owed him better than that!”
“I know,” he said again, “and I am here to make amends.”
“It is rather late for that,” Matilda snapped. “Why are you really here? What do you want?”
“I told you—to make amends. I did your husband a grave wrong and I want to right it if I can.”
Some of Matilda’s rage gave way to astonishment. “You expect me to believe you? If you have a conscience, you’ve kept it remarkably well hidden in the years I’ve known you!”
“It was a surprise to me, too,” he admitted, “and it is a right inconvenient discovery at this time of my life. I’d gotten along quite well without one up till now.” But his humor fell flat. She continued to look at him suspiciously, and he shrugged. “If I am not sincere, why am I here? Why am I not off selling my sword—and my Flemings—to the highest bidder, to Maude?”
She opened her mouth, but she could not think of an answer to that, and for the first time, she began to take him seriously. “I do not understand what you are telling me. If you truly regret deserting Stephen, why did you do it?”
He shrugged again. “There is not much time for reflection in the midst of a battle. When my Flemings broke and ran, I tried to rally them. Obviously I did not try hard enough. But I’d not truly taken the measure of the man, not until it was too late, until I learned how he’d refused to flee, willing to fight to the death—”
“But why did he have to buy your loyalty with his blood? My husband is a good and decent man. Why could you not see that sooner?”
When Christ and His Saints Slept Page 34