People had been clustered at the bridge, lining both sides of the narrow street. But Matilda had not expected a crowd of this size. Nor did she expect the sudden cheer that went up as she came into view. Her mare shied and the Earl of Northampton kicked his stallion forward, ready to grab her reins if need be. William de Ypres was content merely to watch; he’d learned by now that Matilda was better able to take care of herself than most men realized. Matilda soon got her mare under control, and reined in as the spectators pressed forward. She found herself looking out upon a sea of friendly faces, and she smiled at them, wishing she could thank each and every one, these Londoners who’d fought for Stephen as his own barons would not.
“We have made a beginning this day,” she said. “With your help, good people, we shall set my husband free and restore him to England’s throne.”
18
Guildford, England
July 1141
WILLIAM DE YPRES was taken at once to the queen’s presence, despite the lateness of the hour. Not for the first time, Matilda found herself marveling at the Fleming’s stamina. He was past fifty, his hair thinning into a silver fringe, his skin as rough-hewn as bark from constant exposure to sun, wind, and winter gales. He was fighting age, though, as fiercely as he’d fought all his foes, continuing to expend his energy with the reckless abandon of a twenty-year-old. Matilda knew he must be greatly fatigued, for he’d been in the saddle since dawn. But she knew, too, that he’d never admit to it. Ignoring his protests, she insisted upon ordering him a meal from the kitchen and then stood over him while he ate it. It still surprised her, that she could have become fond of a man so likely to burn in Hell’s hottest flames.
Casting aside a drumstick, Ypres reached for a napkin. “Can we forget about chicken now and talk instead of crowns? I have news, my lady, about your enemy the empress. My scouts were right; she did indeed head for Oxford. But she did not tarry there for long, and she and Brother Robert were soon riding west in all haste.”
Matilda stiffened. “Bristol?”
“No…Gloucester, most likely to confer urgently with Miles.” Ypres caught the echoes of alarm in her voice and gave her a level, faintly admonitory look. “That is not a fear you ought to dwell upon, madame. It serves for naught.”
“I know,” Matilda admitted. “I have no reason to think Maude capable of outright murder. And…even if desperation did drive her to it, I cannot believe that Robert would ever agree. But such comforting certitude comes more easily to me during the daylight hours. Alone at night, I begin to hear whispers in the dark…”
“I cannot swear to you, madame, that you have no cause for fear. Nor will I deny that you have put your husband in greater peril. But had you done nothing, he’d have no chance whatsoever of regaining his throne or his freedom. Remember what he was facing: a lifetime’s confinement with no hope of reprieve. With the stakes that high, I’d willingly gamble my life on the outcome, and from what I know of your husband, I suspect he would, too.”
Matilda smiled wanly. “You do find your own way, Willem. Anyone else would have reassured me that Stephen’s life is not truly at risk. You assure me, instead, that he’ll go to his grave bearing me no grudge.”
Ypres grinned; he was always encouraged whenever Matilda essayed a jest, however tentative or forced, for he’d initially feared that she lacked any humor whatsoever. She’d moved to the solar window, gazing out at the summer darkness. After a few moments of silence, she said, “I have news of my own. I had a clandestine visit from Stephen’s brother whilst you were gone.”
Ypres showed no surprise. But then, he was the most cynical soul she’d ever met, always expecting the worst of men and rarely disappointed. “The bishop is seeking to mend fences, is he? Let me see…he did not want to forsake Stephen, but he had no choice, for he had to put the good of Holy Church above all else, however deeply it pained him.”
“If I did not know better, I’d swear you were there, Willem, for that is exactly what he said. By the time he was done, he’d even managed to make his betrayal seem almost heroic.”
He’d rarely heard her sound so bitter. “It was easy enough to guess what he would say. But what of you, madame? What did you tell him?”
“I wanted to spurn his hypocrisy,” Matilda confessed, “to curse his treachery and revile him as Cain. Instead, I made myself smile. I let him clasp my hand and I lied, I said I understood. And then I told him the truth, that we need his help.”
“We do,” he said succinctly.
“I know. And to save Stephen, I’d have made a deal with the Devil himself.” Matilda paused. “In truth, I think I did.”
WORD soon spread of Maude’s return to Oxford. She wasted no time, conferring with her uncle David, the Scots king, and then summoning the others to the castle solar. They were heartened to find Miles at her side, for he had the gift of the best battle commanders, that ability to banish doubts and exorcise the spectre of defeat by the sheer contagious force of his own self-assurance. His presence seemed to have bolstered Maude’s spirits, too; she looked tired and thin, but resolute. “We have made mistakes, most of them mine,” she said, surprising them by her candor. “Fortunately, mistakes can be made right, and that is why I have called you here.”
That had not been an easy admission for Maude to make, but she could not deny, even to herself, that she bore much of the blame for this sudden downturn in her fortunes. She still believed that her grievances were justified. She’d not been able to argue, though, with Miles’s blunt assessment of her plight: had she paid more heed to Robert’s cautious counsel, she’d have been spared the humiliation of being chased out of her own capital by those misbegotten, knavish Londoners. They, at least, would pay for their treachery. Geoffrey de Mandeville would see to that. And she told them then of her proposed pact with the Earl of Essex, one which would grant him the sheriffdoms and justiciarships of London, Middlesex, and Hertfordshire, would promise him the Bishop of London’s castle at Stortford, and agree to make no peace with the Londoners, his “mortal enemies,” without his consent.
That was not well received. There were murmurings, disapproving frowns, and Brien said skeptically, “Is it wise to give Mandeville so much power? When I think of men worthy of trust, he is not the first one to come to mind.”
“We do not trust him, either,” Maude conceded, and Miles stirred laughter by saying brusquely:
“I’d wager that even the man’s own mother did not trust him! But we do need him. We cannot allow the Londoners’ rebellion to go unpunished. The sooner we regain control of the city, the sooner we can get our lady crowned. Stephen’s kingship has been a stinking corpse for nigh on six months now. I say we bury it once and for all.”
That was the sort of tough, confident talk they needed to hear. But they needed answers, too, and John Marshal was not shy about seeking them. “That sounds well and good. But ere we go looking for shovels, what about the chief mourner at this funeral? What about the Bishop of Winchester? Geoffrey de Mandeville told me that one of his spies trailed the bishop to the queen’s castle at Guildford.”
Until now, Robert had taken no part in the discussion. There was a deliberation in his movements that bespoke exhaustion, and he was carrying all of his fifty-one years heavily these days. “We heard the same rumor,” he said. “We have decided, therefore, that I should seek out the bishop in Winchester, do what I can to soothe his wounded pride and assuage his anger. We can only hope it is not too late. But if he does mean to ally himself with Stephen’s queen, better we find out now. We need to know our enemies.”
“Speaking of enemies,” Miles prompted, glancing toward Maude and Robert, “ought we not to tell them about Stephen?”
Robert took up the challenge with obvious reluctance. “When we reached Gloucester, I sent to Bristol for my wife. She brought troubling news. On two different occasions, Stephen was found out in the bailey, each time after dark. Clearly we erred in taking him at his word. He cannot be trusted.”
&nbs
p; Maude had been arguing that all along, and it was hard to resist a tart “I told you so.” Even a fortnight ago, she wouldn’t have. But how could she decry their poor judgment now…after the London calamity?
Stephen had none to defend him. The men still admired his battlefield bravery, but much of their sympathy had been left in the dust on the London-Oxford Road. Even Ranulf acknowledged the danger. Shifting uneasily in his seat, he asked, “What will you do?”
“We shall see to it,” Maude said coolly, “that he does not get a third chance to escape.”
STEPHEN’S jerked upright on the bed. The dream’s terrors were already fading; he no longer remembered what had set his heart to racing, caused the sweat to break out on his skin like this. So much, he thought, for sleeping during the day. But what else was there to do? Who would have guessed that a prisoner’s greatest foe would be sheer boredom?
Getting to his feet, he wandered restlessly about the chamber. Because he’d been lucky enough to have been born male and a king’s grandson, he’d passed his adult years doing as he pleased. He’d been spared Maude’s painful lessons in obedience—until now. The room was stifling. On a hot July day like this, he would have been out hunting. How many more months would he be caged here, tethered like one of his own falcons?
Finding himself at the table, Stephen picked up a book, soon set it down again. He knew there were those who read for fun, but that was a pleasure which still eluded him. The window was unshuttered; he could see men-at-arms crossing the bailey, a groom unsaddling a lathered gelding, several black-clad Benedictine monks. These months of enforced celibacy had given him a new respect for those men who willingly chose to deny the hungers of the flesh. Not even for the love of God could he have forsaken the love of women.
He sat down in a chair by the window and tilted it back at a precarious angle. Thoughts of Matilda were invariably bittersweet. This past week had been particularly difficult, for their sixteenth wedding anniversary was approaching. He refused to let himself believe, though, that he might never again make love to his wife. Without hope, he could not endure, nor keep faith with God.
If this ordeal was indeed a test, if he must prove himself to the Almighty as a true Christian and a worthy king, he could not let himself despair. He could not doubt that he would eventually prevail.
Church bells were pealing in the distance. What was Matilda doing at this hour? Was she still in England or had she taken their children back to Boulogne? He knew she’d be loyal to her last breath. Nor did he doubt her courage or resourcefulness. He’d never believed that women were weak; his mother had effectively dispelled that male myth early in his childhood. But Matilda could not be his salvation, for she labored under the same burden as Maude. A woman could not act alone. She could not lead men into battle. Maude’s claim to the crown depended upon support from men. She’d never have been able to mount a serious challenge to his kingship if she’d not had Robert to fight her battles in England and Geoffrey to fight them in Normandy.
But Matilda had no Robert of Gloucester or Geoffrey of Anjou. The men she ought to have been able to turn to—his brothers—were unable or unwilling to come to her aid. Theobald was too far away to be of assistance, and Henry too treacherous. Nor could he expect men like the Beaumonts and the Fleming Ypres to rally to Matilda, men who’d so shamelessly abandoned him on the battlefield. No, he did not see how he could win—barring a miracle—and it seemed very presumptuous to expect the Almighty to intervene actively on his behalf. If the opportunity arose again, he’d risk an escape. But his best hope was that Maude would lose, that she’d blunder badly enough to confirm all those queasy suspicions about her queenship. Maude or a miracle—his was, Stephen acknowledged wryly, a most unlikely battle plan.
A shout floated up through the open window, and he tipped his chair back still farther, craning his neck to see. A rider was coming through the gatehouse—a courier from Maude? Of all the crosses he had to bear, his sense of isolation was surely the most onerous.
It was all the more frustrating for being a new burden. Up until a month ago, his guards had kept him apprised of the happenings beyond Bristol’s walls. Even his enemies had never denied his charm, and it had been easy enough for him to disarm his young gaolers with his affability and his humor. Only one guard had been immune to his friendly overtures, a burly freckled youth from Shropshire whose cousin had been one of the Shrewsbury garrison hanged at Stephen’s command. The hostile Godwin had still been a source of news, though. He’d been the first to tell Stephen that his brother the bishop had betrayed him, and when the Londoners capitulated, he’d come at once to gloat.
But without warning, it all changed; the well went dry. Now Stephen’s questions went unanswered, deflected with shrugs and silence. He was baffled by their sudden reticence. If Maude had been crowned—as surely she must by now—why were they so loath to tell him so?
Confinement had sharpened his senses, and he heard the muffled footsteps on the stairs long before a key turned in the lock. He was puzzled, for supper was still hours away, but pleased. To a man as gregarious as Stephen, solitude was a punishment in and of itself.
The first man into the chamber was a disappointment, though—Godwin, the embittered Shropshireman. The second guard was a stranger to Stephen, but he smiled at sight of the third, for he’d become fond of Edgar, a painfully shy youth whose stoop-shouldered height and harelip had earned him a cruel nickname from his fellow guards: “Scarecrow.”
Edgar did not return Stephen’s smile. He looked so ill at ease that Stephen glanced instinctively toward Godwin. When he did, he set his chair down with a thud, staring in disbelief at the dangling chains.
Godwin smiled grimly. “I’d begun to despair of this day ever coming, but it was worth the wait, by Corpus, it was. I daresay you think a king deserves shackles of silver. But you’ll just have to make do with the sort used on common folk like my poor cousin.”
Stephen shoved his chair back with enough force to overturn it. Although he’d not yet spoken, it was impossible to misread the defiance in his stance, and Edgar said hastily, “Please, my lord, do not resist. They’ll just summon more men to hold you down…”
Stephen had taken a backward step, his eyes flicking from the chains to the closest weapon at hand, a pewter candlestick. But Edgar had spoken the simple truth; this was not a confrontation he could hope to win. He slowly unclenched his fists, then stepped forward and held out his wrists for the manacles.
STEPHEN’S rage had sustained him until the guards withdrew. But as soon as he was alone, his shoulders slumped and he sank down in the window seat. The shackles were surprisingly heavy and had already begun to chafe his skin. He jerked the chain suddenly and futilely, wincing as the iron bit into his wrist. Like a hobbled horse. Better to have died on the field in Lincoln than this.
Edgar came back at dusk, alone and apologetic, carrying Stephen’s supper tray. Stephen was still sitting in the window seat. He ignored the food, seemed equally indifferent to Edgar, and the youth became flustered under his aloof, uninterested gaze. Even if Stephen’s friendliness was false, as Godwin claimed, it mattered to Edgar that this man, a crowned king, remembered his name, looked upon his harelip without flinching, and when caught out in the bailey, concocted a story to deflect suspicion from Edgar, who’d forgotten to lock his chamber.
“Look, my lord, I’ve brought you these,” he said nervously. “With your permission, I can wrap these rags around the irons. That will keep them from rubbing your wrists raw.”
Stephen met Edgar’s imploring eyes, and nodded curtly. Edgar knelt, began to fumble with the rags. “I am so sorry, my lord. It does not seem right to me, shackling you like this. I do not blame you for trying to escape, for any man would. But it gave them an excuse, you see. Mayhap once the empress is able to be crowned, she will relent—”
“What are you saying, Edgar? Maude has not been crowned yet? Why not?”
Edgar hesitated. “If I tell you, my lord, please d
o not let anyone know you heard it from me. The empress cannot be crowned, for the Londoners rebelled and chased her out of the city.”
“Christ Jesus! Have they forgotten what befell Lincoln?”
“They are safe enough from the empress’s wrath, at least for now. They have your lady wife to protect them, need not fear as long as she holds London.”
“Matilda holds London?” Stephen leaned forward, grasped Edgar’s arm. “Who is helping her? The Beaumonts? My brother? Name of God, lad, tell me!”
“It is the Fleming, my lord. No one knows how your lady won him over, but she—”
“Ypres? You are telling me the truth, Edgar? You swear it is so?”
Edgar nodded solemnly, and Stephen pulled away, leaning back in the window seat. Edgar waited a moment or so, before asking tentatively, “Do you not want me to fix your manacles, my lord?” Stephen merely shrugged, as if the chains no longer mattered, and then startled Edgar by laughing.
Edgar’s eyes were wide, for he could find no humor whatsoever in Stephen’s plight: a consecrated king shackled like a felon. “My lord?”
“For the past six months, Edgar, I’ve been telling myself that as much as I needed a miracle, it was foolish to expect one. But I’d forgotten,” Stephen said, beginning to laugh again, “that I had my own miracle all along. I married her!”