When Christ and His Saints Slept (9 page)

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.”

“You almost drowned, too, Stephen. Few men come as close to death as you did that November night…and walk away. Have you never wondered why you were spared? Was it truly happenchance? Or did the Almighty spare you for a purpose of His own?”

“What purpose, Henry? To save England from Maude? Would it not have been simpler then, just to let the White Ship miss that rock? If Will had not drowned, Maude would still be in Germany, our uncle would have a son to succeed him, and you and I would not be having this conversation.”

That was not the response Bishop Henry had been hoping for, but he still felt confident that he had planted a seed in fertile soil, for what man did not ponder his own place in the mysterious workings of the Almighty? He let Stephen go, content to wait.

GOING
down into the great hall, Stephen found Theobald sharing a hospitable wine flagon with their cousin. He and Robert greeted each other with a marked and mutual lack of enthusiasm, but he had a much warmer welcome for Robert’s young squire. Ranulf had passed several years in Stephen’s household serving as a page, for that was the approved method of educating youths of good birth. That past November he’d turned fourteen, and Robert had then assumed responsibility for the next stage of his schooling, in which he would learn about horses and weapons and the art of war. Stephen was quite fond of the boy, an affection Ranulf returned in full measure, and their reunion was highly pleasing to them both. But night had fallen some time ago, and Matilda had long since gone up to bed. Stephen soon excused himself and did likewise.

Matilda was already asleep, but when Stephen drew her into his arms, she snuggled drowsily into his embrace. He kissed the corner of her mouth, then the pulse in her throat, and her lashes quivered. “I’ve been told,” he murmured, “that there is a good-hearted lady here who never turns a needy stranger away from her door. What are my chances of getting what I need?”

“I’d say just fair to middling.” But he felt Matilda smiling against his neck, and when he caught hold of her blonde braid, she took it back, then tickled his nose with the tip.

“My cousin Robert arrived after you went above-stairs.” He bent over, licking the soft hollow of her elbow. “He is on his way to visit Maude at Le Mans. Her father wants to know how she is faring, for Robert says she has been ailing, that her pregnancy has not been an easy one.”

Matilda was wide awake by now. “You and Henry were in the solar for a long time. Once or twice I thought about coming to your rescue, but I could not think of an excuse he’d find credible.”

“Next time, love, claim the castle is on fire,” Stephen suggested, and she laughed softly, entwining her fingers in his chest hair and tugging gently. There were few secrets between them, for theirs was that most fortunate of unions, a marriage of state that was also a genuine love match. But he’d yet to tell her of past “crown conversations” with Henry, and he did not tell her of this latest one, either, although he could not have explained—even to his own satisfaction—why he kept silent.

Matilda was still smiling, her lips invitingly parted, and he lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss was a long one, no longer playful. But he surprised her, then, by saying, “I think we ought to ride along with Robert. He says Maude’s time is almost nigh, and I doubt she is getting much comfort from Geoffrey.”

Matilda doubted it, too, and was sorry that Maude’s marriage was so unhappy. But she still did not want to go to Le Mans. She and Maude were first cousins, for their mothers had been sisters; their uncle David was the current King of Scotland. They were linked as well by Matilda’s marriage to Stephen. But there was no friendship between them; they were too unlike for that. Moreover, Matilda was eager to return to Boulogne, where their young sons awaited them. “If you truly want to go, Stephen…”

“But you would rather not,” he said, not fooled by her dutiful denial. “I do think I ought to go, love.” He hesitated, unable to explain why he felt this urgent need to offer Maude support. “But you are not obliged to go with me. You could await me here at Chartres, or…or you could ride south to Marcigny and pass a few days with my mother.”

Matilda could not hide her dismay; she was thoroughly intimidated by her formidable mother-in-law. “If that is truly your wish…,” she began gamely, but then the deferential wife gave way to the suspicious one, and she raised up to look sharply into his face. “That,” she cried, “was a cruel joke,” and she yanked his pillow away, hit him with it.

Stephen was laughing too hard to offer an effective defense, and Matilda soon pummeled him into submission. Flushed and triumphant, she rolled over into his arms again. “I will go with you to visit Maude if it means that much to you. I will go wherever you desire, my lord husband,” she said, and heaved a mock martyr’s sigh before adding, “except to the nunnery at Marcigny!”

Stephen laughed again, then reached up and drew the bed-hangings snug around their bed, shutting out the world.

MAUDE
was delighted to have company in these last weeks of her pregnancy. She was always glad to see Robert, who’d done his best to mend her rift with their father. She was quite fond of Ranulf. And Stephen was not just her cousin; he was one of the few men with whom she could let down her guard. She was even pleased for once to see Matilda, for Matilda had borne Stephen two children, knew what to expect in the birthing chamber.

Maude believed in being well prepared for any eventuality, but her own memories of childbirth were clouded as much by grief as by the passage of time. All she remembered with clarity was the pain afterward, once she’d been told that her son’s life had been measured in but a few feeble breaths, a fading heartbeat. Minna was no help, for her marriage had been barren. And when Maude had asked other women, all too often they had assumed an indulgent tone that she found infuriating: the battle–seasoned soldier spinning war stories to awe the raw recruit. While Maude had never liked her shy, soft-spoken cousin, she felt confident that condescension was not one of Matilda’s character flaws.

Robert had brought Maude a letter from their father, the warmest letter she’d gotten in some time. He was not a man to forgive easily, but it seemed that he was willing to let bygones be bygones now that Maude was back with Geoffrey where she belonged, and about to give birth to his grandchild. Maude was very resentful of his judgmental attitude; the letter pleased her, though, in spite of herself. After supper, she played chess with Robert, persuaded Stephen to teach her a popular dice game, and had a quiet talk with Matilda, who was able to reassure her that the pains she’d been having in recent days were quite normal and no cause for concern. It was one of the most pleasant evenings Maude had passed in months, and she even unbent enough to let her young brother Ranulf feel her baby’s kicking. There was only one shadow cast over their gathering: Geoffrey’s conspicuous absence.