IN THE GRIP OF AN ICY RAGE, Stephen pulled Matilda through the throng of nobles, determined to reach the outer doors of Westminster before someone stopped him. He heard the voices of the de Beaumont twins and his brother calling his name, but ignored them. If someone offered him one word of sympathy, he thought savagely, he would fell them with a blow.
Outside, Stephen found Gervase and other members of his mesnie gathered in the courtyard. One look at their stricken faces left no doubt that the shattering news had reached them.
“We are not staying the night at Westminster. Gervase and the others will escort you to the Tower,” he told Matilda, helping her into a waiting litter. “You won’t arrive till morning but that can’t be helped.”
Her eyes still wet with tears, Matilda clutched at his arm. “Dear heart, do you come with me?”
“No. I have business to attend to.”
“At this hour?”
“At whatever hour I choose.” Stephen’s face was set in stone, his eyes as frosty as the North Sea.
Frightened, Matilda shrank back into the litter as Stephen slammed the curtains closed. Overhearing their exchange, Gervase approached Stephen with an anxious look.
“My lord—wherever you go, take Arnulf and Gilbert along. I beg you not to travel alone.”
Stephen ignored him and jumped onto his mare, Audrade. He spurred the horse forward, and headed toward the river. Some way behind him he heard the sound of horses’ hooves. The knights, Arnulf and Gilbert, he assumed, but did not turn back to look.
He was still stunned by the King’s proclamation, the crushing, totally unexpected humiliation he had experienced before his peers. It was almost impossible to take in the enormity of his loss. Everyone had assumed he would be named the King’s heir. To be deprived of a crown that he had thought virtually within his grasp was an overwhelming disappointment; but to have lost it to a woman—and to Maud in particular, Maud, with whom he had thought himself so hopelessly in love—was devastating. No, he contradicted himself angrily, not love. What a fool he had been to think so. Lust. Yes, he had lusted after her, no more than that. And once he had possessed her, it would have been finished for him, for there was little sport to be had once the game was won.
Approaching the Thames, Stephen looked for the ferry that would take him across to Southwark. The silence of the mild December night was broken only by the water lapping against the riverbank, the sound of horses’ hooves smacking against the hard earth. Finally he found the flat-bottomed ferry moored to the quay and, dismounting, led his mare up the gangplank and onto the deck. The two knights followed behind, but he paid them no attention. Perched in the prow, the oarsman pushed off from the bank and rowed the boat silently across the river.
Oblivious to his surroundings, Stephen relived the scene in the great hall over and over. How could he have been so blind, how could they all have been so blind, to the King’s intention ? Who would have dreamed King Henry capable of such an appalling outrage, such an unprecedented act? For a moment Stephen wondered if the King might not be in his dotage. Irrational behavior was common among men in old age; it seemed the only logical explanation, yet in all other aspects the King appeared as alert as ever.
How much had Maud known? he wondered. Had she been privy to her father’s plans from the start, dissembling so adroitly he had never had the slightest suspicion? Stephen writhed with shame to think how deeply he had trusted his cousin, confiding to her his ambitions and hopes for the future. What a fool he had made of himself. Maud. Maud. His heart cried out to her as anguish stabbed through his vitals like a sword thrust. The loss of his dreams, his hopes, stung like a raw open wound.
The ferry bumped the opposite shore. Stephen led Audrade onto solid ground, mounted her, and turned left toward Southwark, galloping recklessly along the riverbank. He had no destination in mind, just an urgent need to give vent to his hurt and rage. Every instinct told him the King had made a fatal mistake. How could his uncle imagine that his subjects would accept such a decision when both magnates and commonfolk had expected he, Stephen, to rule? Had the King forgotten how popular he was? Stephen could not imagine a future in which he would not be king. Something must be done, he vowed; he could not, would not, allow the whole course of his life to be altered. His brother, he thought, a spark of hope penetrating the black rush of his thoughts. His brother Henry would know what to do.
That same night, Brian FitzCount stifled a yawn as he sat across from King Henry in the chamber used to conduct the administrative business of the realm. Beside him, the Bishop of Salisbury, his head fallen over his portly chest, snored softly. The chamber, lit by a score of wax tapers, resembled a monastic scriptorium. In its center stood a long oak table piled high with rolls of parchment and books bound in vellum. Scrolls of parchment and books also filled the iron-bound chests that lined the walls. A black-robed cleric bent over the far end of the table scrutinizing a roll of yellowing parchment, so old it crumbled at the corners. Another cleric, perched atop a high stool, held a wax tablet and stylus in his lap.
The abbey bells rang for Lauds. Three hours after midnight, Brian thought, and they had already been here two hours. King Henry, his chin in his hand, brooded over some inner vision of his own. Suddenly he turned to Brian.
“I still can’t believe it,” he muttered. “I realized that naming Maud as my heir would take some getting used to, but the hostility I saw, the outrage—” He lapsed again into silence.
So the King was stunned by the unexpected response to the long-awaited proclamation, Brian realized in surprise. He had expected him to be furious. Strange that such a crafty sovereign should be so blind in this instance. But he had also been blind to the despicable character of his son and heir, William, refusing to see what was obvious to everyone else. Where the succession was concerned, it was now apparent the King saw only that which he wished to see.
“There must be a precedent,” Henry said. “There must be.”
Brian doubted they would find one. Shortly after Matins he had been awakened from a sound sleep and told to attend the King. When he arrived in the chamber, Bishop Roger was already there. The three men had waited while the clerics conducted a frantic search for any evidence of a woman succeeding when no male of the ruling family was available.
“I have found something, Sire,” a cleric finally said, his voice blurry from lack of sleep.
He ran an ink-stained finger over the lines of faded parchment. “A few hundred years ago the King of Wessex passed away and his queen reigned after him for a year.” He looked up. “Then she was removed. The writer of this chronicle suggests that perhaps men could no longer stomach taking orders from a woman.”
“God forbid the magnates should hear of this. Is that the only example of a female ruler?” the King asked.
“All I can find, Sire.”
“Keep looking. Wake up, Roger.” He reached over and shook the sleeping bishop. “Listen to this.”
Roger started awake. “Yes, Sire.” He heard what had been found, then shook his head. “It’s as I feared. Nothing in the past will be of any help, but the chronicle brings up a point I’ve already mentioned to you: Neither noble nor church will accept a woman ruling alone. It goes against the grain and you’ll have rebellion on your hands.”
Henry snorted. “As I’ve told you, Roger, there’s no question of her ruling alone. Naturally there must be a king-consort. Do I look like a fool? But the first order of importance is that my magnates swear homage to Maud.” He rose to his feet and began to pace the chamber.
“You have someone specific in mind? Who is it?” Roger asked.
“Let us say the matter is well in hand. Be patient.”
How typical of the secretive king to withhold the vital information of Maud’s future husband, Brian thought. Obviously he must be someone the magnates would resist, or why not immediately announce the fact? Brian’s heart sank. Every instinct he possessed told him the King was headed for a course that could easily lead the realm to disaster. He must at least make an effort to prevent that.
“Sire, it occurs to me that feelings may run high against this homage ceremony. There are those who will leave England rather than swear fealty to your daughter. The magnates had their hearts set on Stephen, and Stephen himself expected to be the heir. Perhaps, to give everyone time to adjust—”
Henry held up his hand for silence, slowed his pacing, and came to rest before Brian. “I know all about my nephew’s hopes, never fostered by me, I might add. As for the nobles leaving England—I’ve thought of that and already arranged to have the cinque ports watched. Anyone trying to leave will be stopped. For those who refuse to swear—there’s plenty of room in my dungeons.”
Brian saw Roger stare at the King in consternation. He gave a sigh of resignation. He had done what he could. So be it. Matters would fall out as God willed.
“The matter is closed,” King Henry said, resuming his seat at the table. He pointed to the nodding cleric who held the wax tablet on his lap. “You, what is the order of precedence I gave regarding the ceremony?”
The cleric twitched awake and glanced down at his wax tablet. “Ah, let me see, first to swear will be the Archbishop of Canterbury, then the other peers of the church. The first of the lay peers to swear homage will be the King of Scotland, then the Earl of Gloucester, then the Count of Mortain—”
“What!” Brian and the Bishop rose to their feet in unison.
“A grave mistake, Sire,” the Bishop protested, his jowls quivering with outrage. “You cannot allow a bastard, no matter how high his position, regardless of the esteem in which he is held, take precedence before Stephen of Blois. That is truly asking for trouble.” He turned to Brian. “My Lord of Wallingford, you’ll support me in this?”
“Absolutely, Your Grace. I beg of you, Sire, Stephen and his brother Henry will take this as a mortal insult to the House of Blois, coming as it does on the heels of their earlier … disappointment. My Lord of Gloucester must swear after Stephen.”
The King was silent. “Robert is the child of my heart. Had it been in my power, I would have made him my heir. You both know he is the best qualified. But fate has determined otherwise. The least I can do to honor him is to have him swear homage to his sister right after the King of Scotland. Surely it is a small thing, but important to me.”
His voice had become almost pleading, which fooled no one present, thought Brian. It was not a small thing, and the King knew it well enough. But neither he nor the Bishop voiced further protest. To continue to oppose Henry of England was the quickest way to the dungeon—or the grave.
Brian knew there was no way he could point out King Henry’s mistakes to him, beginning with making Maud his heir, and now letting Robert swear before Stephen, thus adding insult to Stephen’s already injured feelings. If the King made enemies of his two nephews there might be far-reaching consequences, consequences that would not be manifest until after his death, when it came time for everyone to fulfill their oath to see Maud crowned. And if, in addition, there was the wrong choice of king-consort … Folly piled upon folly. Where would it end?