STEPHEN’S BROTHER HENRY, ABBOT of Glastonbury, had witnessed the encounter between the King and his daughter with intense interest. When the King arranged to see his daughter alone, followed immediately by a visit from the Bishop of Salisbury, he suspected something was afoot. After Vespers, an impromptu visit to Bishop Roger was in order. The Bishop would tell him about the second meeting, and also allay his growing concern about his brother’s future as heir apparent, a concern he had not voiced to Stephen. A light wind ruffled the pale brown hair around his tonsure and flattened his black habit against his thin shanks.
As the Abbot bowed his head to enter the cramped interior of the church, the stench of unwashed bodies rose to meet him. He wrinkled his arched nose in distaste. Looking about him with cool green eyes, the Abbot realized that almost no one from the King’s camp had attended the service. Not surprising, he thought, in such an ugly, unassuming house of worship. A church should be glorified with beautiful things in tasteful surroundings, not like this filthy place. Impatiently, his eyes sought out the altar. There was no water clock, not even an hourglass. He thought longingly of his own comfortable, well-appointed church in Glastonbury.
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.