The Fatal Crown (12 page)

Of course Glastonbury was well enough for the moment, he reflected, letting his mind wander. It would serve as a stepping-stone to greater heights, such as the wealthy and powerful See of Winchester, recently fallen vacant. He was positive he could persuade his uncle that, despite his youth, he was the right candidate. Once the King let it be known that he favored his nephew, the church would appoint him. It might even be possible to retain his See of Glastonbury as well.

Yes, Bishop of Winchester was the next rung on the ladder, Henry thought. But that was not the summit of his ambition. Far from it. An expectant smile curved his thin lips. When the King died, if all went as expected, then his brother Stephen would succeed to the throne. Not long after that, the present Archbishop of Canterbury, a frail old man, would almost certainly be called to his just reward. Henry had Stephen’s firm promise to then make him Archbishop. And after that? Archbishop of Canterbury was the highest honor the English church could offer, the apex of his hopes. Or was it? Half dozing, the Abbot suddenly saw a picture of himself in a red cardinal’s hat walking up the stone steps of St. Peter’s in Rome to a thundering peal of heavenly bells.

After the service was over, Henry strode quickly through the village until he came to the Bishop of Salisbury’s pavilion. Inside, he found Bishop Roger conferring with the cleric who attended him.

“I would see the Bishop alone,” he said to the cleric.

The cleric looked at the Bishop, who nodded his consent. When they were alone, the Bishop offered Henry a stool.

“I prefer to stand, thank you, after kneeling in that poor excuse for a church.”

“You must be more charitable toward our less fortunate brethren. I take it this is not a courtesy visit?” The Bishop’s shrewd eyes searched the Abbot’s face.

“In truth, I would open my mind to you, Your Grace.” He paused. “You will forgive my bluntness but it has struck me that there’s more to the return of the King’s daughter than has been said.”

“Are there rumors to that effect?”

“Thick as flies in summer.”

The Bishop sighed. “I feared as much. There is a reason the King has sent for her, but I’m bound by oath not to speak of it.”

The Abbot digested this in silence, pleased at his own prescience. Should he leave it at that or pursue the matter further? He would pursue it.

“Is there to be an advantageous marriage for her?”

The Bishop examined his pudgy fingers weighted with jeweled rings. No, Henry decided, he was on the wrong path here. Not a marriage. He adroitly switched to another subject.

“Is there any word on when the King will announce Stephen as his heir?”

Roger’s face turned the color of suet. “I told you I would let you know,” he whispered, his eyes darting around the pavilion in agitation. “We mustn’t speak of such matters here.”

“It must be spoken of,” the Abbot insisted. “Neither Stephen nor I can understand the delay. The King is not in robust health; the Queen remains barren. It’s imperative he designate an heir now. You told me so yourself, on numerous occasions—”

The Bishop put a hand up to signal silence. “Never mind what I said in the past.” He passed a shaking hand across his forehead. “Listen to me, Henry, I speak as a friend: Stephen will not be designated as the King’s heir.” Suddenly he compressed his lips, as if fearful he had said too much. “Leave me now for I can tell you no more.” Slowly, he raised his vast bulk from the stool.

“Stephen not the heir?” The Abbot stared at him, unable to believe he had heard him aright. An icy chill traveled down his spine. So great was his shock that for the first time in his life he found himself beyond speech. “But—but it must be Stephen,” he managed to say at last. “Who else is there, unless—is the Queen with child?”

“Not that I know of. Let us leave the matter now,” the Bishop muttered.

“Please—I beg you to tell me who will reign after King Henry. For almost a year now you have fostered our hopes. I thought you supported Stephen.”

The Bishop sighed. “Believe me when I tell you I put forward your brother’s cause as well as I knew how—to no avail. Stephen will not reign.” He lumbered toward the tent door.

“Is the heir to be Robert of Gloucester?” The Abbot drew back his head like a serpent ready to strike. “Is the King so addled in his wits he thinks to foist the by-blow of a Welsh concubine on the realm?” he hissed. “No one will stand for it, I can promise you that.”

“No. No. Not Robert.”

“Then who? There is no one else. You must tell me!” Beside himself with outraged frustration, the Abbot imprudently grabbed the prelate by the shoulders. “Why will Stephen not be king? Why?”

“You dare to lay hands on me? Have you gone mad?” The Bishop struggled in his grasp. “Walter, Walter,” he suddenly shouted for his cleric.

The cleric burst in so quickly that Henry knew he had been listening at the door. His arms fell to his sides. It had been an unforgivable breach, totally unlike him to lose control.

“Forgive me, Your Grace, for so forgetting myself.
Mea culpa
. I accept whatever penance you deem proper for the offense.” Hiding his anger and chagrin beneath a frosty smile, he bowed and left.

Shaken, the Abbot walked aimlessly through the camp. God forgive him, but he would have liked to throttle the information out of Roger of Salisbury. He still could not believe what he had heard. It was impossible that Stephen would not be the King’s heir.

For more than a year now, ever since he had completed his studies at the monastery school of Cluny and come to England, Henry had expected his brother to eventually reign—should the Queen remain childless. His blood churned; his head felt as if it would burst. His ultimate goal in the church depended on Stephen being crowned, for how else could he make absolutely certain of being appointed Archbishop of Canterbury when the See fell vacant? From that exalted office he would virtually govern the kingdom through his brother, for he had always been able to bend Stephen to his will. Then would the church rule supreme in England. Henry never doubted that his own interests and God’s were one and the same. Why else was he put on earth but to honor Our Lord through the rule of the church?

Nothing must come between him and the high purpose he had set himself, he thought savagely. Nothing and no one. The Abbot looked up at the dark sky, suddenly wondering if God had failed him. Impossible. He crushed the treacherous thought before it could take root. Was he not His most worthy servant? Of course. Then matters must fall out as he had envisioned.

As Abbot Henry raged through the night, he knew with every fiber of his being that, somehow, he would see his brother on England’s throne, no matter the cost.

L
ATER THAT NIGHT THE
king’s bastard son Robert, Earl of Gloucester, was awakened from a deep sleep by Brian FitzCount.

“Sorry to wake you, Robert,” Brian whispered, “but the King suffers from one of his nightmares. He complains of sharp pains in his belly and is calling for you.”

“A moment. I’ll meet you outside.”

Groggy, Robert rubbed his eyes, rolled his stocky body out of his pallet, fumbled for his tunic and boots, then tiptoed through the pavilion, stepping over the sleeping bodies of his cousin, Stephen, and the de Beaumont twins. Outside, he knelt by a wooden bucket, then splashed his face with water until he was awake. Hastily, he slipped the tunic over his head and pulled on his boots.

“What happened?” Robert asked Brian as they made their way through the quiet camp. Usually, either Brian or himself tended the King when he was ill. Tonight the duty had fallen to Brian.

“I was playing to the King on my lute, soothing him for sleep as I often do. He slept, but then the nightmare started. The usual one.”

“Perhaps there was too much excitement today,” Robert suggested, “what with the arrival of his daughter and all.”

“More likely the stewed lampreys he ate, which his physicians warned him never to touch again. Remember how sick he was the last time he had the dish? But when he wants something, who dares to cross him?”

No one, Robert thought. As they approached the King’s tent Robert heard his father groaning, and saw the anxious faces of the guards flanking the entrance. Inside, the King lay tossing on a feather bed, his face beaded with sweat. A squire, crouched by his side, sponged his face with a damp linen cloth. A single candle threw a long shadow across the dim interior.

“Father, Sire, I’m here.” Robert knelt beside the bed.

“My son!” Struggling to a sitting position, the King clutched Robert’s shoulder with clawlike fingers. “God give me strength, I had that terrible dream again—”

“Prepare a posset of wine mixed with a few drops of poppy,” Robert whispered to the squire, who withdrew to a corner of the tent. “Tell me, Sire.”

Breathing in labored gasps, the King fell back against the pillows. “Always the same dream. Peasants and knights assault me with lance and billhook.” His voice dropped. “They torture me and—” His eyes grew wild, and he touched his groin with a trembling finger.

Robert took his father’s hand in both of his. “Calm yourself, Sire.”

“Is it God’s judgment, Robert?” The voice was barely audible now. “Is it? Is it?”

“No, Father,” Robert said soothingly. “Naught but a nightmare. From eating stewed lampreys against your physicians’ orders. That’s all.” He dared say nothing else, although the King suffered similar nightmares so often that, in his heart, Robert concluded it must be a judgment from God.

The squire appeared, holding out a wooden cup. “The posset, my lord.”

Robert propped his father up against the pillows, took the cup, and lifted it to the King’s lips.

The King turned his head away, wrinkling his nose like a petulant child. “How do I know it’s not poisoned,” he muttered. “Perhaps you work in league with my enemies, seeking to destroy me before my work is done. Drink it yourself first.”

Without hesitation, Robert lifted the cup to his lips and took a small swallow. He handed it to Brian, who did the same. “There. Perfectly safe. Do you drink now.”

The King watched them suspiciously for a few moments before taking a wary sip. Robert watched him carefully as he drank the rest. After a short while the King’s eyelids began to droop.

“Robert—” The King’s eyes flew open as he clutched Robert’s arm. The deep dark eyes, so like his own, fixed him with a compelling intensity. “You must promise me—nay, swear to me upon the soul of your dead mother, whom I loved above all other women—that you’ll protect and stand by your half sister under all circumstances.”

“Of course, Sire.” Such an odd request. Why would the King think Maud needed protection, Robert wondered uneasily; yet there was no denying the urgency behind the plea.

“You too, Brian.”

“Of course, Sire,” Brian replied.

“Swear now. Wait.” Fumbling under the pillow, the King pulled out a crystal vial containing a milky liquid. “On this holy relic—Our Lady’s milk. Swear on this.”

Concealing his surprise, Robert placed his hand on the vial. “I swear, Sire, on the soul of my dead mother and upon this holy relic, to obey your wishes regarding my half-sister.”

Brian also swore.

The King’s eyes glazed. “I know I can trust you, my son, and Brian too, not to betray me when I’m gone.”

Brian and Robert exchanged startled glances. Betray the King after his death? How would that be possible? It must be the poppy dulling his father’s wits, Robert decided.

“I would never betray you,” he replied, in the gentle voice he used to allay the unfounded fears of his children.

“You are the child of my heart, Robert,” the King whispered, his eyes closing, “and I bitterly regret I cannot make you my heir, for you are the best suited to be king. But the church, the people, the magnates, no one will accept a bastard ruler. Only a child I’ve begotten on an anointed queen. You understand, my son—” The harsh breathing became regular as the King’s head lolled to one side.

Greatly disturbed, Robert rose to his feet. “Let me know if he wakes again,” he said to the squire.

Brian picked up his lute and together they left the tent. Outside, they breathed deeply of the cool night air.

“What can he have meant, that the heir must be the offspring of an anointed queen?” Brian asked. “Stephen isn’t the son of a queen. He’s not even in the direct male line of descent from the Conqueror, yet everyone expects him to be the King’s successor—unless the Queen produces a son.”

“One can take no notice of what my father says when he’s in such a sorry state,” Robert said. “His wits are so befuddled that he forgets William is dead. His words make no sense otherwise.”

“None whatsoever,” Brian agreed. “I wonder where he got that bogus relic.”

“Bogus?”

“Come, over the years I’ve seen enough vials of virgin’s milk to have nursed a hundred Christs. I didn’t think the King was so gullible.”

“What a man believes is his own affair. Who are we to judge?” Robert said, unable to shake off his feeling of distress.

He had long ago accepted the fact that he could never be the King’s heir. Yet mention of it stirred up old longings, forgotten dreams once cherished.

“What troubles you?” Brian asked.

“Surely it is a hard lesson God has set me, to know I’m ideally suited for a great task and be denied all opportunity for fulfillment.” He had not meant to speak of his feelings; the words had come forth before he could stop them.

Brian reached out and laid an understanding hand on Robert shoulder. “You would make a splendid king, in my opinion, better than Stephen.”

“Stephen will do very well,” Robert said quickly, not wanting Brian to think him disloyal, although he was inwardly gratified.

“Well enough,” said Brian, with an ironic twist to his voice. “He’s a great warrior and unsurpassed in the hunt. Well-loved, charming and personable. But there’s more to ruling the Norman realm than killing men and beasts.”

“He will rise to the task, I’ve no doubt,” Robert stated firmly. Nothing was served by dwelling on what he could never have.

He looked up at the shadowed sky lit by a full moon. With God’s grace, he would be home in time to oversee the gathering of the harvest.