THE PROCESSION CAME TO a halt in the king’s camp just as the sun climbed into a cloudless blue sky. Raising her hand to ward off the bright glare, Maud saw a group of horsemen against a background of golden light. Behind them she glimpsed a crowd of people, then the royal tent where the unseen figure of her father waited, his invisible presence casting a giant shadow over the entire area. One of the horsemen, astride a red Flanders mare, detached himself from the others and trotted up to her litter. His honey-brown hair was brushed with fire in the morning sun, a blue silk mantle, fastened at one shoulder with a gold clasp, fluttering gaily behind him in the breeze.
Dazzled, Maud could only stare at him in breathless wonder. Handing the reins to a waiting squire, the rider sprang gracefully from his horse. At first Maud was aware only of a flow of energy emanating from the figure striding toward her. As he came closer she could see a tall, lean man with wide shoulders, dressed in a long blue tunic embroidered in red and gold thread at the hem and cuffs, and wearing tan boots of soft Spanish leather. His face broke into a smile as green-gold eyes stared down at her in a long, searching look of recognition.
“Well met, Cousin,” the man said, his voice surprisingly soft, as he half lifted her out of the litter. “I am Stephen of Blois, Count of Mortain, and we first saw each other a long time ago. Do you remember?”
“Indeed.” He still resembled the boy in the scarlet cap who had smiled at her in much the same way he was smiling now. “The day I left England is not one I would be likely to forget,” she said. “Surely you are the boy with the cat’s eyes riding into Windsor as I rode out.”
Stephen laughed delightedly. “Cat’s eyes! No one has ever compared me to a feline before.” His face grew sober. “The day one leaves home marks a turning point, does it not?” He gave her an understanding look. “And the day one returns, another.”
Filled with a rush of emotion, Maud looked quickly away, unprepared to find such ready empathy from this unknown cousin. She wondered why neither of them mentioned the incident by the river.
“I thought you the most beautiful maiden I had ever seen,” Stephen continued, “but so unhappy. Time has made you even more fair. I hope it brought you happiness as well, before your tragic loss, of course.” He signed himself.
Maud felt tongue-tied, ill at ease with the admiration she saw reflected in his eyes, the warmth in his voice. Aware of his large hands still holding hers, Maud tried to pull away, but he held her fast. A spark traveled from his palm to hers; the air seemed to pulse between them. The feeling was so new, so intense, and so unexpected that she felt close to panic.
“You cannot keep her all to yourself, Stephen.” A small, stocky man, his brown hair shaved at the back and sides, walked up to them. “Sister!”
As Stephen finally released her hands, the man hugged Maud affectionately, kissing her on both cheeks. “I’m so pleased to see you again. You cannot know how I’ve missed you all these years.”
The Welsh lilt to his voice, the deep-set dark eyes were all familiar. In a wave of relief, Maud threw her arms around her half-brother. Robert was as warm and friendly as she had remembered him. The crown shifted on her veil and she reached up to steady it.
“By Our Lady, you wear a king’s ransom on your head, Cousin,” Stephen said, apparently noticing her crown for the first time. He could not seem to take his eyes off the gem-encrusted gold plates winking in the morning sun.
“It’s the Imperial crown, given to me by the Emperor,” Maud said, a hint of pride in her voice.
There was a moment of silence. The two men exchanged quick glances, and Maud sensed their unspoken disapproval.
“Yes, well, you will hardly need it here,” said Robert.
“You’re in Normandy now where beauty is the only crown a woman wears,” Stephen added. “Yours is more dazzling than any diadem.”
Light repartee of this kind had not existed at the stiff German court, with its formal etiquette. Maud did not know how to take this unfamiliar banter. Obviously, as Aldyth had warned, it had been a mistake to wear the crown, but she had no intention of removing it now.
They waited a moment as if expecting her to remove it but as she made no move to do so Robert said, “Come, Sister, the others wish to greet you as well.”
Robert led Maud to the group of horsemen who had dismounted. One, a hunchback, dressed all in green, had dark brown hair framing a comely, sensitive face.
“Here are the de Beaumont twins.” Robert pointed to the hunchback. “Robert, Earl of Leicester in England, whom we call Robin. His twin brother Waleran, Count of Muelan in the Vexin.” He nodded at a large man, resplendent in red and black, with a brooding face and a nose beaked like a hawk. He turned toward a third man. “Brian FitzCount, Lord of Wallingford.”
This man was almost as tall as Stephen, with a sinewy frame and cropped black curls growing over his head like lamb’s wool. Something flickered in his dark blue eyes as they stared straight at Maud.
“Perhaps you will remember they arrived on the day you left for Germany,” Robert continued. “Not that you would be expected to recognize them as the sniveling rats they then were.”
The men’s names were not unknown to her, of course, for the Emperor had insisted she familiarize herself with the most powerful lords at her father’s court. The twins were the sons of the late Count of Muelan, King Henry’s oldest friend. She gave them a warm smile.
Eyeing her with cool speculation, the three strangers murmured polite greetings. Impossible to believe these grown, self-assured nobles were the frightened children she vaguely recalled meeting so long ago.
“A pleasure to see you again,” Maud said.
There was a faint murmured response in return.
“I regret that I do not recall meeting you, Madam,” said the Count of Muelan in a blunt, no-nonsense voice. “Do you recall meeting her, Brother?”
“By my faith, I remember nothing of the time I arrived in England,” Robin of Leicester replied. “I was miserable and wanted my mother.”
Brian laughed. “All I recall is how terrified I was when I met King Henry. A sniveling little rat, just as Robert says.”
“And stinking. By God’s face, will I ever forget that!” Waleran smote his thigh. “You had pissed in your drawers and when the King came to greet us, he held his nose and said that this one stinks like a dung heap, someone clean him up!”
They began to laugh uproariously, joined by Stephen, each chiming in with his own version of what had happened that day.
It was obvious to Maud they had forgotten her.
And why not? She was the outsider, excluded by experience and gender from their tight little circle. How could she contribute to their memories? Shading her eyes with an unsteady hand, she turned her back on them to gaze at the far horizon. The smudged purple line of hills melted into the deep blue of the sky. Green and yellow fields, cut through by the old Roman road on which she had just traveled, shimmered in the sun. If only she could will herself back on that road heading toward Germany.
“It is the King’s pleasure to see the Princess Maud,” piped the voice of a page just behind her.
One hand went to her throat and her heart leapt in fear. Then she stiffened, realizing it was the second time she had been called Princess. An oversight, surely, but one she must correct at once.
She smiled at the page. “In Germany I am referred to as Empress,” she said.
The page looked puzzled, then bowed and ran off. The men stared at her in surprise. She returned their look in dismay. Had she done something wrong?
“Whoever you may be in Germany, Madam, here you are the King’s daughter,” said Waleran of Muelan. “And honor enough I would have thought.”
The others nodded and murmured assent.
Obviously these men could know nothing of her background, she realized, the respect and importance with which she was regarded in Germany, the decisions the Emperor had entrusted to her care. With a sudden sinking sensation in her stomach, it now dawned on Maud that perhaps no one knew; perhaps this was the response she could expect from everyone. Even worse, her triumphs in the Empire would probably mean nothing to her father’s people, even if they did know. England and Normandy comprised the whole world for these Norman barons. How would she ever fit in to their narrow sphere!
“If you want my advice, Madam,” Waleran was saying, “do not wear that German bauble before the King lest you offend him. You’re a subject of Normandy now.”
Stung, Maud gave him a cold look. “Thank you, my lord, but I don’t think you fully understand. The crown is not a bauble but an emblem of royalty. I am an empress in my own country and the crown is exactly where it belongs.”
She had spoken more forcefully than she had intended and to her dismay saw the Count of Muelan’s face turn a dark red. Sweet Marie, had she offended him? He did not speak but the glare of enmity in his black eyes was unmistakable.
In the awkward silence that followed, Maud was uncertain what to do. It was beneath her dignity to ask if she had given offense.
“Come, Cousin.”
Stephen stepped smoothly into the breach, offering her his arm to lead her toward the scarlet tent. The others fell in behind.
“Don’t let Waleran’s manner disturb you,” Stephen said under his breath. “He can be prickly as a porcupine if he thinks someone has insulted him. He’ll get over it.”
Remembering the look in Waleran’s eyes Maud was not so sure. She prayed she had not made an enemy her very first day in Normandy. Conscious of the warm pressure of her cousin’s arm against her own, Maud approached the King’s pavilion.
The entrance was flanked by two poles of long wood, each flying a red-and-gold banner. To one side, standing stiffly at attention, were grouped a score of archers in leather hauberks. Surrounding the tent, knights, ‘squires, ladies-in-waiting, richly dressed nobles, and clergymen whispered among themselves as they examined Maud with frank curiosity. Two bishops in gold-embroidered robes came forward; the sun struck sparks from their miters and crosiers. One Maud recognized as the portly Bishop of Salisbury, the King’s chief adviser. Behind them walked an abbot, resplendent in a, black silk habit, a gold cross set with pearls lying on his breast. His face looked oddly familiar. Like Stephen’s, she thought, startled.
“The Bishops of Salisbury and Rouen, and behind them the Abbot of Glastonbury,” Stephen said in her ear.
“The Abbot resembles you,” Maud said.
“Not surprising, since he is my younger brother, Henry. He left the Benedictine monastery at Cluny less than a year ago and is already well on his way to becoming a power in the church.”
Maud cast Stephen a quick look, curious as to why his voice had developed a marked edge when he talked of his brother. Then she smiled at the prelates, inclining her head.
“Benedicte,” the bishops murmured in unison, making the sign of the cross over her head before stepping back.
The Abbot bowed and smiled, a smile, Maud saw that never reached his pale green eyes. Closer, his resemblance to Stephen was less pronounced.
“Welcome to Normandy, Cousin,” he said in a cool voice.
The crowd grew quiet. Maud’s throat went dry; her heart beat so heavily she could hardly breathe. She was aware of a solemn hush, the abrupt absence of Stephen’s arm.
Suddenly the door opened and a man stepped out. Short, dark, with powerful shoulders, a broad chest, and thick bull neck, his heavy black brows almost met over the dark, piercing eyes Maud had never forgotten. He was dressed in a short black mantle fastened at the right shoulder with a gold brooch, over a plain brown tunic. Cuffed black boots encased his bowed muscular legs. Around his thick waist he wore a heavy leather belt studded with jewels. On the top of his round head rested the golden crown he had once given Maud to hold. Although he had aged since she had last seen him, Henry of England still radiated power, menace, and authority.
Maud opened her mouth to greet him but the words refused to come. Some instinct made her fall to her knees. Fighting back tears, Maud found herself staring at her father’s scuffed boots, the gilt spurs secured with brown leather. Iron fingers gripped her shoulders. The King pulled her roughly to her feet.
“Well, well, no need for that. You are a royal princess after all.”
Maud detected a note of satisfaction in his voice as he held her at arm’s length. Instinct had not led her astray when she knelt.
“You have arrived safely, praise God and all His Saints. There is much to be thankful for.”
“An honor to be in your presence, Sire,” she managed to say in a strangled voice she barely recognized.
“And you haven’t forgotten your Norman tongue, I see. Something else to be thankful for.” The King raised an arm high above his head as he shouted: “The Princess Maud speaks the tongue of her Norman ancestors, the tongue of the great William, her grandfather, as well as ever she did the day she left our court.”
Which was not quite true, Maud thought, for now she had a slight accent. Nevertheless, there was a twitter of approval from the waiting crowd. Hooking his thumbs in his belt, Henry slowly walked around her. Finally he nodded his head, apparently satisfied with what he saw.
“Yes, you have become worthy of us, Daughter. Every inch a Norman princess.” He paused. “I see you have even put off mourning to signify the importance of this auspicious occasion.”
Henry continued to walk round her, reminding Maud of a wild beast circling its prey. Finally he came to an abrupt stop. His jaw thrust out, he pointed a stern finger at the Imperial crown. “Why do you wear the crown of a German empress?”
“The crown?”
“Yes, the crown you wear, what else? I did not refer to mine.”
The crowd tittered softly. Maud felt her face turn crimson with shame.
“You are a widow and no longer Empress,” Henry continued. “Why do you wear it?”
Maud moistened her dry lips. “To honor my late husband.”
“I see. I’m sure that would be much appreciated in Germany.”
As Henry fixed her with an unblinking stare Maud wanted to sink into the ground. If only she had listened to Aldyth!
“But you’re in Normandy now. The Emperor is dead; that life is finished. Come, take off the crown.”
“It is mine,” she whispered, her heart hammering.
In desperation, seeking help of any kind, Maud looked around her. All she saw were members of the Norman court, viewing her plight with detached interest.
The King gave her a menacing look. “Take off the crown lest I have someone do it for you.”
Squaring her shoulders, Maud lifted her head proudly. She would show him she was no longer a child to be ordered about as he pleased. Her father’s eyes, hooded and hard as agates, bored into hers. For a moment she challenged him, her intention battling his own. Every part of her tensed, screaming with the desire to defy him. But she was not strong enough. Not yet. His will was like an iron shield, unassailable, and she knew herself overmatched. Once again the King had backed her into a corner leaving her no choice. He had won—as he always had. But Maud knew she would never forget this moment of humiliation and she wanted him to know it, too.
Her face set, gray eyes blazing, Maud slowly lifted her arms and deliberately removed the crown from her head, resisting an overpowering impulse to smash it into her father’s face. As if reading her violent thoughts, he took a backward step. But, to her surprise, he did not look displeased. She turned to give the crown to one of her ladies before she remembered that they had remained in the pavilion across the river. Stephen walked forward.
“Let me help you, Cousin,” he said, taking the crown from her.
Not trusting herself to speak, Maud nodded gratefully. The King grimaced in what she took to be a smile, and clasped her in his arms at last. The familiar scent of sweat, damp leather, and stables was overpowering. The waiting crowd let out a long sigh.
“You will not regret the loss of that trinket,” Henry said in her ear. “You shall know as much honor in England and Normandy, I promise you, as ever you knew in Germany. More.”
He released her so quickly she stumbled backwards, but he caught her arm in a firm grip. “You have much to learn, I think, but you please us well, Daughter.”
“Sire.” She bowed her head, controlling her rage and shame as the magnates of her father’s court came up to greet her.
With a frozen smile on her lips she mouthed polite phrases, her father’s words echoing in her head. Honor indeed! Sweet Marie, what honor was there in shaming her before his court? Without her crown, which she knew she could never again wear with impunity, she felt naked, stripped of pride and identity. It was not to be borne! But for the moment, if she meant to survive in this Norman stronghold, she must bear it. And she intended to survive, she told herself fiercely, survive long enough until somehow she became as powerful as her father.