“There is not a soul to be found in all of Christendom who could distract Maude from what truly matters—claiming the throne Stephen stole. And if you think I’d rather talk about Eleanor of Aquitaine than Annora, you’re either drunk or demented or both. I’ve gone a year with no word from your sister, and that was long enough to last a lifetime. So let’s strike a deal here and now. You hand over Annora’s letters and I’ll not inspect her seal to see if you read them on the sly!”
Ranulf grinned and reached across the table for Annora’s letters. But Ancel had turned, was glaring accusingly at Gilbert. “You did not tell him?”
“Me? It was not my place to tell him,” Gilbert protested. “She is your sister, not mine!”
Ranulf frowned. “Tell me what? Annora is not ailing?”
“No,” Ancel said reluctantly, “she is well enough. But you’d best put her out of your mind, Ranulf, for she is married.”
Ranulf stared at him, then laughed. “How gullible do you think I am, Ancel? Next you’ll be telling me she has decided to become a nun!”
“Ranulf, I am not jesting. She is married, I swear it.”
Ranulf half rose from the bench, grabbed Ancel’s wrist. “That is a lie!”
“No…it is not. She was wed last Michaelmas to Gervase Fitz Clement.” Ancel tried unsuccessfully to break Ranulf’s grip. “I know you do not want to hear this, but it was for the best. It was a good match, for he is a kinsman of my father’s liege lord, Simon de Senlis, and holds manors in Shropshire and Leicestershire and Yorkshire—”
“Why are you lying like this? I know your father, know how he dotes upon Annora. He’d never force her to wed against her will, no matter how many manors the man had!”
“For Christ’s sake, lower your voices,” Gilbert urged, “for we are starting to attract attention!”
“Annora was not forced! She wanted the marriage!” Ancel was suddenly free. He rubbed his wrist, drew a deep breath, and repeated, “She wanted it, Ranulf, and that is God’s Truth.”
AS soon as he moved, Ranulf was assailed by pain. Squeezing his eyes shut, he lay very still, waiting for it to pass. It didn’t, though, and he forced himself to sit up, fighting back a wave of nausea. He had no idea where he was. It seemed to be a tiny cubicle up under the eaves of a roof, a dingy, sparsely furnished room that reeked of perfume and held only a straw mattress, a chamber pot, and several coffer chests that doubled as seats. The lone window was shuttered, and the air fetid and stale, oppressively hot. His clothes were scattered about in the floor rushes, and by gritting his teeth, he managed to ignore his throbbing head long enough to collect his crumpled tunic, linen shirt, and braies. He had to hunt for his chausses, finally finding the striped hose entangled in the sheets. But a search of the entire room did not turn up his money pouch.
He was slowly pulling on his boots when the door opened and a woman entered. “Awake at last, are you? I was beginning to think I’d have to charge you rent, sweeting!”
The light was so dim that Ranulf could tell only that she was young and plump. “What time is it?” he mumbled, and then, “No! Do not open the window!” But he was too late. Pulling the shutters back, she blinded him with a sudden surge of bright afternoon sunlight.
GROPING his way down a narrow stairway, Ranulf emerged into an inn’s common chamber. A few men were seated in the shadows, and one of them now beckoned. As he moved closer, he recognized Ancel.
“Jesus God, you look like somebody pried off the lid of your coffin! Sit down ere you fall down, over here at the table. I do not suppose you want anything to eat yet?” Ranulf was not able to suppress a shudder, and Ancel grinned. “No, I thought not. I’m not surprised you’re so greensick, for you damned near drank Falaise dry. Oh…ere I forget, here is your money pouch. We thought I’d better hold on to it, since you were in no shape to fend off a mewling kitten, much less any of the cutthroat knaves prowling about this hellhole.” He watched as Ranulf slumped onto a stool, then slid a clay goblet across the table. “Have a few swallows of ale.”
Ranulf peered into the cup, thirst warring with queasiness. “So you paid the wench above-stairs, then? I owe her no money?”
“I even chaffered her price down, and a good deal I got for you, too. She was worth it, I trust? Ah…but you do not remember, do you? I suppose you do not remember the doxy at the Crane on Tuesday, either? A pity, for that one looked hotter than Hades!”
Ranulf took a tentative sip of the ale. “Where is Gib?”
“He’d begun to fret so about letting Lord Robert down that I finally sent him back to Caen. You’ll have to help me concoct a plausible excuse for my absence, or Lord Simon will have my hide.”
Ranulf blinked. “Tuesday, you said? What day is this?”
“Thursday.” Ancel laughed at Ranulf’s startled look. “Indeed, you have not drawn a sober breath for nigh on three days! Is that a record, you think?”
Ranulf glanced at Ancel, then away. Three days lost and he could remember none of it—Jesú! “I suppose I ought to thank you and Gib for making sure I did not do anything crazy—like breaking into another nunnery,” he said, with a grimace of a smile. “Ancel…tell me what happened.”
“When we got to England, Annora was hurting and angry and of a mind to listen when my father proposed the match with Gervase Fitz Clement. I know what you’re thinking, that she did it to spite you, and mayhap that is so, for Annora always did have a hellcat’s temper. But the marriage was the right choice, even if she did make it for the wrong reasons. Gervase is a man of breeding and wealth and influence. As I told you on Monday eve, he is kin to my lord, Simon de Senlis.”
“That I remember,” Ranulf snapped. “What of it?”
“He’ll be able to take good care of Annora, Ranulf. She’ll want for nothing. And he seems right fond of her, seems pleased to have such a lively young wife. His first wife died two years ago, leaving him with three children…and they took to Annora straightaway. Sometimes a second wife loses out when there are children from an earlier marriage. But Gervase has enough to provide well for his heir, and for any sons Annora gives him—”
Ranulf set the goblet down with a thud, sloshing ale onto the table. Annora naked in another man’s bed, bearing his children: the image was so vivid that he gasped. Tears burned his eyes and his throat closed up as he struggled with emotion just as raw and ravaging as physical pain. When he finally won his battle for control, he looked up, shaken, to find Ancel watching him with helpless pity.
“Ranulf, I am truly sorry. But it was for the best, and you’ll come to see that in time. You and Annora are too much alike; your marriage bed would have become a battlefield ere the year was out.”
Ranulf slammed his fist onto the table, a foolish move that triggered so much pain he feared his head would split wide open. “Damn you, shut your mouth!”
Ancel took no offense; in fact, he even looked contrite. An awkward silence fell between them, until Ranulf forced himself to ask, “Is…is she happy?”
Ancel hesitated. “When I saw her at Christmas, three months after her wedding, she seemed content. I’m sorry if that is not what you want to hear…”
Ranulf said nothing, for at that moment, he truly did not know what he’d wanted to hear. Ancel went to fetch more ale, was bringing it back to the table when the door was flung open with a resounding crash. Ranulf winced, turning away from the blaze of light, but Ancel stopped abruptly. “Gilbert? Why are you not in Caen?”
Gilbert strode toward them. “You’ve got to get back to Lisieux, Ancel, and right fast, for your lord is sure to be in a tearing rage. All hell broke loose in Lisieux on Tuesday eve. Stephen’s army fought a bloody battle in the city streets, but not with Geoffrey’s Angevins—it was Normans against Flemings, and they’re still counting the dead!”
“You’re not serious, surely?”
“No, Ancel, I’m jesting. I rode all the way from Caen just for the fun of it! I’m telling you the truth, and have the saddle sores to prove
it. A squabble started between several Norman and Flemish soldiers over a wine cask, and it soon became a brawl and then a battle. A lot of men died, and some of the Norman lords were so wroth they abandoned the campaign and rode off—without even seeking Stephen’s permission! Can you imagine anyone defying the old king like that?”
“Only if they had a death wish,” Ranulf said, with his first real smile in three days.
Gilbert reached over, helped himself to Ancel’s ale. “It sounds,” he said, “as if your sister’s luck has finally taken a turn for the better!”
“I AM Ranulf Fitz Roy, and I am here to see my brother, the Earl of Gloucester.”
That was all it took to gain Ranulf entry into Caen Castle. As he followed a guard across the inner bailey toward the keep, he tried to shake off his fatigue, to decide what he would say to Robert. That was no easy task, for he was not even sure why he was here. It had not been planned. He’d told Ancel and Gilbert he was joining Maude in Domfront, but after they’d departed, he’d passed several more utterly aimless days in Falaise. And when he’d finally mounted his horse, he’d found himself heading north instead of south. He’d covered almost all of the twenty miles to Caen before he’d even admitted that was his destination. But he’d realized that he needed more comfort than he could get from wine and whores. Now, as he climbed the stairs to Robert’s solar, it occurred to him that whenever he’d been hurting in the past, he’d turned to Stephen to stanch the bleeding, and he laughed bitterly, earning a curious look from the guard.
Any qualms he’d harbored about his welcome were vanquished at once, dispelled by the warmth in Robert’s surprised smile. Amabel, too, seemed genuinely glad to see him, and he’d not been sure that would be so, for he knew Amabel was less forgiving than Robert. But after one glimpse of his haggard face and bloodshot eyes, she sent a servant down to the kitchen with an order for Ranulf’s favorite foods, and steered him firmly toward a cushioned settle.
Amabel’s charm was undeniable when she chose to exert it, and uniquely her own, by turns flirtatious and maternal, with a tart tongue leavened by easy, earthy laughter, a free spirit securely anchored to reality. She lavished that charm now upon Ranulf, full force, scolding him playfully for sins of omission, teasing him about losing his razor, for his wine-blurred week in Falaise had given him the beginnings of a blond beard. In their society, youths were clean-shaven; men were not. To Robert and Amabel, the sight then, of Ranulf’s new-grown stubble was significant in a symbolic sort of way, proof of passage across that most unsettled of borders, the one dividing boyhood and manhood.
“You’re not drinking your wine, Ranulf. Is it not to your liking?”
Ranulf’s smile was wry. “In truth, Amabel, I’d sooner quaff blood. I had a very wet week, and I’m still drying out.”
Robert nodded sympathetically. “We feared you’d take it hard, lad.”
Ranulf could not hide his surprise. “You know, then?”
“Of course we do. How is Maude bearing up?”
“Maude? What does Maude have to do with Annora’s marriage?”
“Annora?” Amabel drew a quick, comprehending breath. “Your lass wed another man? Ah, Ranulf, I am indeed sorry!”
By now, Ranulf was thoroughly confused and increasingly uneasy. “If you did not know about Annora, what then, did you mean? Why should Maude be distraught? With Stephen’s soldiers spilling their own blood, she has every reason to rejoice. Unless…unless it was not true?”
“No,” Robert assured him, “it is true enough. The feuding between Normans and Flemings flared into violence, and the Earl of Surrey’s son and other Norman lords then withdrew from Lisieux in a rage.”
“Well, then, as I said, Maude has reason to rejoice, for the end is now in sight. When Geoffrey marches on Lisieux, how can Stephen hope to hold him off?”
“Stephen saw that, too, lad. Whatever his failings as a king, he is a seasoned battle commander. He realized that his campaign was in shambles and his throne at risk, and so he made Geoffrey an offer—two thousand marks in return for a two-year truce.”
Ranulf was stunned. “You cannot be saying that Geoffrey agreed?”
“Yes,” Robert said quietly, “he did.”
RANULF had spared neither his horse nor himself, and they were both exhausted by the time the city walls of Domfront rose up against the sky, high above the River Varenne. The closer he came to Domfront, the more Ranulf dreaded what lay ahead. How could Maude not be shattered by this latest and cruelest of all her betrayals? To have the English crown at last within her reach, only to be snatched away again, this time by the perfidy of her own husband. He could not blame her if she had no more heart for this unequal, unending struggle. But if she admitted defeat, he’d fought—and lost Annora—all for nothing.
MAUDE was alone in her solar, standing by an open window. The morning light was warm and scented by the gardens below, but it was not kind, accentuating Maude’s pallor, her hollow-eyed fatigue. At sight of Ranulf, though, her sudden smile belied the strain and sleepless nights and thwarted hopes. “You’re back!”
Ranulf stopped short. “You did not doubt it?”
“Of course I did not, Ranulf!” she protested, sounding so surprised and so sincere that he felt a flicker of comfort; at least he’d been able to do that much for her, to gain her trust.
They looked at each other in silence for a moment, and then Ranulf said abruptly, “If there is any justice under God’s sky, that double-dealing Judas will rot in Hell, right alongside Stephen!”
Maude gave him another smile, but this one never reached her eyes. “Give Geoffrey his due, lad. Judas sold his soul for thirty pieces of silver, but Geoffrey turned a much better profit; he extorted two thousand marks from Stephen!”
“What did he say to you, Maude? What justification could he possibly offer?”
“That the price was right, too tempting to refuse. Ah, but he did throw me a few crumbs of comfort. He assured me, you see, that making a truce and honouring it are not necessarily spokes on the same wheel.”
Ranulf swore under his breath. “So what now? We wait on his whim, wait until he gets bored enough or restless enough to resume the war?”
“Yes,” Maude said, very dryly, “that sums it up rather well.”
“And you believe him?”
“I have to, Ranulf,” she said, “I have to…”
Ranulf felt a rush of relief, realizing in that moment just how much he’d feared hearing her say it was done, that he’d sacrificed his happiness with Annora for an elusive, unattainable dream. “You astound me,” he said huskily. “No matter how often these whoresons shove you into the fire, you always rise from the ashes again, just like that mythical bird, the…the phoenix.”
“This time I singed my wings well and good, and lost a few tail feathers, too,” she conceded. “But they’ll grow back.”
They both turned, then, toward the open window, for the sound of “Mama” floated up, clear as a bell, on the mild summer air. Below them, a groom led a dappled grey pony, and sitting proudly in the saddle was a beaming little boy. As soon as they appeared at the window, he waved. “Mama, look! I’m riding Smoky! Watch me, Uncle Ranulf!”
“We’re watching, Henry,” Maude called back. “You’re doing very well!”
“I know,” Henry agreed, with such a cocky grin that Ranulf and Maude both laughed. In coloring, Henry was very much his father’s son, and the sun haloed his reddish-gold hair, windblown and copper-bright. As young as he was, he knew his own mind, and they were not surprised to hear him arguing with the groom, insisting he could handle the reins himself. He was not one for whining, though; he was usually a cheerful, high-spirited child whose most common sins were cheekiness and an insatiable curiosity, sins easy enough to forgive. His younger brother Geoffrey was quick to throw tantrums when he was thwarted, but that was not Henry’s way, and he sought to persuade the groom now with a precocious mix of childish logic and coaxing charm.
“I thought
you’d told Henry he could not have a horse of his own until he turned five. What changed your mind, Maude?”
“Geoffrey very helpfully told Henry that he’d learned to ride when he was four. I’ll not deny my heart was in my mouth the first time I saw him lifted into the saddle. But I do Henry no favor by coddling him. I must ever bear that in mind, the hardest lesson a mother has to learn.”
Her dark eyes were following her firstborn as he explored the confines of the garden. “When I was pregnant with Henry,” she said, “I remember being urged to eat these vast meals. Whenever I balked, there was always some meddlesome but well-meaning soul to remind me that I was eating for two. Well, now I am fighting for two, Ranulf. It was not just my birthright Stephen stole; it was Henry’s, too. So…I cannot give up. I will not fail my son as so many have failed me.”
THAT summer was exceedingly hot, and by September, the crops were shriveling in the fields, rivers running shallow and sluggish, and the roads so cracked and pitted that travelers found themselves choking on clouds of thick red dust. The great hall in Rouen’s castle was stifling, windows unshuttered in the vain hope of drawing in a breeze, attracting only flies and swarms of gnats. But most of the people present were indifferent to the heat and the insects, for their attention was riveted upon the confrontation taking place between the English king and the most powerful—and, therefore, most dangerous—of his barons.