MAUD, STUNNED BY STEPHEN’S rash assertion of his position, the afterglow of his ritual kiss still warm upon her lips, accepted the homage of her half-brother in a distracted state. She did not fully gather her wits together until Ranulf, Earl of Chester, stood before her and delivered yet another surprise blow.
Maud expected him to kneel but instead he addressed the King: “Sire, before I swear homage to your daughter as my liege-lord, I need assurance that the barons of your council will have a say in her choice of husband. After all, it is he who will rule, and therefore must be acceptable to your magnates.”
Ranulf, who ruled the vast palatinate of Chester which bordered both Scotland and Wales, was one of the most powerful and influential magnates in the realm. When he spoke, his peers listened; where he led, others would follow. Now his words swept over the assembled throng like a high wind rustling through a field of grain. After a moment’s pause every noble loudly raised their voices in agreement.
Maud froze in her royal chair, far more shocked by Chester’s ultimatum than she had been by Stephen’s setting aside of her brother. This was an open challenge to the King: Agree to Chester’s terms or suffer the consequences. Although her father had made no mention of a future husband except in the vaguest terms, Maud was realistic enough to know there would have to be one. As she would be queen in her own right, however, she did not know exactly what role a king-consort would play under such unusual circumstances. She had resolved to discuss this with her father at the earliest opportunity.
Now her eyes sought King Henry who, stroking his chin, stared at Chester with open enmity. Maud knew he would carefully weigh his options: There was no question of taking hostile action against the Earl, not with all the nobles supporting him, thus he could not openly refuse Ranulf’s request. How would he elude the trap?
“Naturally, my Lord of Chester,” Henry replied in a soft voice that nonetheless chilled Maud’s blood. “If that is the will of my magnates, I can only agree. No marriage will be made for Maud without the consent of my council.”
“Will you swear to that, Sire, upon these same holy relics?” Chester pointed to the ivory casket.
The King’s face became gorged with blood. Then he forced a smile to his lips and visibly regained control. He snapped his fingers and his steward sprang forward. Henry pointed to the casket of relics; the steward lifted it up and held it before the King. With his hand on the ivory casket, Henry swore his oath not to marry Maud to anyone without the consent of his council.
Maud felt a shiver of apprehension run through her. Every instinct she possessed told her that the King had no intention of consulting his magnates on the subject of her marriage. But the nobles accepted the oath with a murmur of approval. The casket was again laid beside her and Chester bent his knee to swear homage. His face, with its long brown mustache, was flushed with satisfaction.
The rest of the ceremony went smoothly, and there was no overt evidence of the outrage or hostility Maud had glimpsed on Christmas Eve. Perhaps, with God’s grace, she would be accepted after all.
The winter of 1126 passed without incident. January turned into February and February into March. Maud was so busy that she hardly had time to notice the change of seasons. Each day since the homage ceremony she had received intensive instruction from her father on the administrative workings of his realm. Her willingness to learn, her ready intelligence, as well as her vast knowledge of European affairs had earned her father’s respect and approval. Maud knew he was pleased—and surprised. As a result the time she spent with him was unusually agreeable.
Even the King’s magnates appeared to have developed a grudging tolerance of the situation. Maud was profoundly grateful for the overwhelming change in her fortunes, and if Stephen had been in her company more often she would have been totally content. Since the homage ceremony, however, she had barely glimpsed her cousin. Maud wondered if he still smarted as a result of having his ambitions thwarted, even blamed her in some way, and was thus avoiding her. It was a constant worry to her and she had asked Robert if Stephen held a grudge against her.
“It’s not like him to hold on to a grievance,” he had replied slowly. “But, of course, losing his hopes for the crown was a heavy blow. In time Stephen will recover, I doubt not. Be patient. His brother, on the other hand, will have taken the loss very much to heart. He was promised the See of Canterbury when Stephen became king, after the present archbishop dies.”
“No wonder he’s so cool to me,” Maud had said. “But the Abbot is less clever than I thought. After all, what is to prevent me from granting him the same prize—if I’m queen at that time. He would do better to woo my favor than shun me.”
Robert had laughed. “I imagine that currying favors from a female is anathema to him.”
A typical ecclesiastical attitude, she had reflected. Meanwhile, all she could do was wait for Stephen’s wounded pride to heal.
One afternoon in early March, Maud walked across the courtyard at Westminster heading for the small chamber located in the southeastern corner of the castle where she met the King for her daily instruction. Overhead, dark clouds scuttled across a gray sky and a raw wind blew from the north. The courtyard bustled with its usual activity: squires polishing hunting horns and spears, huntsmen exercising shaggy deerhounds, falconers airing their hooded birds.
She was halfway up the narrow stone steps leading to the chamber when the sound of hooves made her turn back. Three riders rode into the courtyard. Maud’s pulse quickened as she recognized Stephen and the de Beaumont twins. Grooms hurried to tend the horses and the riders dismounted. Stephen’s face was flushed from the ride; he threw back his tawny head to laugh at something Robin of Leicester said, then flung a comradely arm over his shoulder. At the sight of his tall, lean body, Maud’s heart turned over.
Stephen noticed her on the steps and with a word to the twins went over to where she stood.
“What good fortune,” he said. “I came to Westminster especially to see you. Matilda and I have been in our estates at Lancaster for the past month or more, which is why I’ve been so neglectful.”
His eyes met hers, and pulled by an invisible thread, Maud found herself at the bottom of the steps, closer to him.
“I’d prepared a brave speech of apology to you,” he said, earnestly, holding out his hands, “but now that I’m here the words are gone from my mind.”
“Apology?” She reached out to grasp his hands.
“I didn’t respond to the King’s news with good grace on Christmas Eve. I should have offered my congratulations on the signal honor the King bestows on you, but the truth is I was heartbroken and angry. You know how much I wanted the crown. Forgive my discourtesy?” He squeezed her hands.
“Surely it is I who should ask your forgiveness for being given what you so badly wanted.”
Stephen could not have been more open or disarming, and her fears that he would no longer care for her quickly evaporated. Why, then, remembering his taut face and blazing eyes on Christmas Eve, did his words strike her as somehow too glib, almost rehearsed?
“I’d no idea what my father would say,” she continued. “Please believe me, it came as much of a surprise to me as it did to you.” She paused and swallowed. “I know how you must feel, having your hopes dashed, and I can’t say I blame you, but I hope it won’t destroy our friendship.”
Something flickered at the back of his eyes, then was gone. “Nothing will ever destroy our friendship, Cousin. Put the matter from your mind. I intend to faithfully serve you as my queen.” His eyes danced. “It should prove no great hardship.”
Pleased but still faintly troubled, Maud smiled her acknowledgment. She wanted to ask him about the business with Robert at the ceremony but decided to leave well enough alone. She sensed a mystery about Stephen: subtle shifts of mood, something held back, facets of his character that caused a faint doubt in her mind, a cobweb of uneasiness so fragile that it vanished before she could catch hold of it. In truth she was not sure what she sensed.
As he looked at her now, his eyes embracing her, the touch of his fingers intoxicating, Maud’s breath caught in her throat; her reservations melted away like wax before a flame.
“I must see my father now,” she murmured, releasing her hands.
He stepped back. “Perhaps we’ll meet again at supper?”
She nodded and floated up the narrow staircase to the King’s chamber.
When she entered the room Maud knew immediately that something of moment had occurred. Attended by the Bishop of Salisbury and one of his physicians, her father’s face was pale and his manner agitated.
“Sire, please, take this draught of wine mixed with poppy juice,” the gray-bearded physician urged.
“I refuse to have my wits dulled for the remainder of the day. Go, and leave me in peace.”
“What’s happened?” Maud asked, alarmed.
“The King is upset. He received some bad news from Anjou, my lady. Really, he should be bled—”
“You’ve said enough. Get out!” The King, suddenly enraged, grabbed the goblet the physician was holding and poured the contents over the dried rushes on the chamber floor. “I would be dead and in my grave if you doomsayers had anything to say about it,” he shouted. “Out, out, both of you.” He threw the goblet at the man’s feet.
Clucking like an old hen, the physician, followed by Bishop Roger, hastily withdrew.
“By God’s splendor, what a bunch of old women.”
“Of what bad news does he speak, Sire?” Maud ventured. “Has some new trouble arisen between Count Fulk of Anjou and yourself?”
The King looked at her for a moment without speaking, then began to stroke his chin. “Old trouble. Not new.” He took a deep breath. “Normandy has had trouble with Anjou for over a century. But ever since your brother William died matters have become even worse.”
Maud refrained from saying that it was hardly surprising there continued to be bad blood between Anjou and Normandy. She remembered, the Emperor telling her that after William’s death her father had shipped his son’s thirteen-year-old widow back to Anjou minus her very considerable dowry. When Count Fulk, her father, demanded its return, Henry had delayed, making one excuse after another. When it became evident that he had no intention of returning the dowry, the Count of Anjou had sworn vengeance.
The King walked over to the oak table and looked down at the parchment map of Europe that covered it. “Matters have come to a head with Anjou, far sooner than I’d imagined. It’s imperative you fully understand what is at stake, for your support is needful.”
Intrigued, Maud joined him at the oak table. “Anything that I can do to help, Sire.”
The King stabbed his finger at a large black dot. “Here is Anjou to the south, France to the west, and Normandy to the north, with the Vexin in between. Louis of France has long had his eye on Normandy. In fact, the House of Capet has coveted the duchy since the days of the early Norman dukes.”
“I’m familiar with the history of Normandy and France,” Maud said.
“Then you’ll grasp the situation all the more readily. William Clito, my brother Robert’s son, was only a babe when I captured the duchy. Since coming of age, he fancies himself the true Duke of Normandy, and has caused continual unrest in my domains. Caught between these two enemies, France and my nephew, Normandy is in constant danger.”
“We heard in Germany that William Clito and Louis of France had made common cause against Normandy,” Maud said, her interest quickening as she grasped the full import of his words. “Joined, as I now recall, by Fulk of Anjou.”
The King nodded. “Indeed, they formed an alliance with the sole purpose of taking over Normandy.”
“But then,” she continued, “just after the Emperor died, Anjou suddenly became your ally, and Louis of France backed down. The threat came to naught. That is all I remember.”
King Henry tapped his finger against the map. “Anjou and Normandy together would be able to repel successfully any attack from France. Would you agree that such an alliance is vital for our survival?”
“Oh, I heartily agree, Sire.” Maud came round the table to stand next to him. “How did you persuade Fulk of Anjou to throw in his lot with Normandy instead of France?”
“I made a bargain with him,” the King said in a casual voice, “but if I don’t keep my part, he’ll withdraw his support.”
“What was the bargain, Sire?” She searched her father’s face.
With an enigmatic smile, the King hooked his thumbs in his black belt, and began to pace the small chamber. Maud’s eyes followed him, more intrigued than ever.
“I regret that you didn’t know your grandfather,” he said, abruptly changing the subject.
Maud was immediately on guard. When the King talked of his father, she had learned, it usually meant he wanted something. Like a crab, he approached everything sideways.
“The tales he would tell me of our Viking forebears,” the King continued. “What a heritage is ours, Daughter, a two-hundred-year-old heritage that began with Rollo, first duke of the Normans, eventually passing on to Duke Richard the Fearless, Duke Robert the Magnificent, Duke William Bastard, the Conqueror, and now myself. After me comes the Duchess Maud, followed by her sons and grandsons.”
Distrustful at first, Maud now felt her blood stir at his words. She gazed at her father with a rapt expression on her face.
“We started as savage Norse adventurers, yet the Norman spirit, bold and fearless, has traveled to England, southern Italy, and Sicily.” He walked to the window seat and back again. “Queen Maud,” he said. “What a noble ring it has.”
“Queen Maud,” she repeated in hushed reverence, savoring the title in her mind, imagining herself as England’s sovereign, beloved as her mother had been, respected as her father was now.
“Nothing must put the realm in jeopardy. Nothing,” he stated firmly. “Whatever needs to be done, no sacrifice is too great to ensure the safety of our line, the continuation of our proud dynasty.”
Maud nodded vigorously. “Oh, Sire, it is a sacred trust.” Tears sparkled in her gray eyes. “Before God and all His Saints, I promise to be worthy.”
The King looked deeply into her eyes, reached out to pat her shoulder, then stepped back. “When I tell you of your forthcoming marriage,” he said, “I know I can hold you to that promise.”
Maud reeled back in stunned disbelief. Her mouth fell open; the blood drained from her face, and her body felt as if it had received an impact of such violence that she could not draw breath.
When there was no answer to his statement, the King said, “You heard me?”
“Yes,” she whispered, unable to find her voice. Fool! Fool! With no more caution than an unsuspecting rabbit, she had walked right into the trap he had laid for her. Trembling, Maud sank onto a stool. “To whom will I be married?” But she already knew the answer.
“You’re far too clever not to have guessed by now.” The King confronted her squarely.
“Count Fulk,” she said, in a voice unrecognizable as her own. “So I’m to be the price of Anjou’s support. In return, the Count receives the crown of England and the duchy of Normandy.”
Her father nodded. “But it would be more accurate to say Anjou shares the crown of England and the dukedom. A fair exchange.”
“For whom?” A memory flashed across her mind and she frowned. “Perhaps I’m mistaken, but in Germany we heard that Fulk of Anjou is to marry the King of Jerusalem’s daughter. Does he give up the Holy Land for the throne of England?”
The King was silent. He walked back to the table and began to fidget with a corner of the map. “No, you heard correctly. It’s not Fulk who will be your husband, but his son. Fulk has abdicated in the boy’s favor, and young Geoffrey is now Count of Anjou. The bad news I received was from Fulk, who grows impatient to leave for Jerusalem and his new bride. He demands that our arrangements for the betrothal be completed—or he will withdraw his support of Normandy and again throw in his lot with Louis of France.”
“Boy? How young is this Geoffrey?”
“A mature youth of almost fifteen, in possession of a powerful county,” the King told her in a calm voice.
“Almost fifteen! You would wed me to a child?” she shrieked.
“Child? Child? It’s common to marry at such an age. You were only thirteen when you married the Emperor. Geoffrey is a remarkable youth, I hear, looking far older than his years, and of such an unusual beauty he is called Geoffrey the Handsome. Imagine! Highly intelligent, trained in the arts of war, and a great scholar. With your scholarly background, you’ll suit each other well.”
Maud heard her father’s voice from a long way off but his words had ceased to have any meaning. She felt as if she were in a dream. At any moment she would wake and all would be as it had been a few moments ago. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a great rage simmered, threatening to explode.
Not an hour since, she had been congratulating herself at having won her father’s respect and esteem. Now it appeared that he had been toying with her, only pretending to treat her as a person in her own right, beguiling her with a magic rhetoric that would have induced her to agree to anything. She had just begun to trust him, and he had betrayed her. Yet again.
The King poured some wine from the leather flagon on the table into a pewter goblet. “I realize this comes as a shock, but I know you can see what this marriage will mean to Normandy’s future—which is to say, your future.”
Maud drank the wine in a single gulp, not tasting it but glad of the warmth it bought. Her father stood over her, an expression of concern softening the harsh lines of his face.
He put a tentative hand on her arm. “Daughter—”
She threw off his hand as if it had been a live coal. “I was an empress,” she said. “I will be a queen. How can you marry me to a mere count? It’s an outrage!”
“I expected that to be your first reaction, but you did agree we need Anjou as an ally.”
“Yes, but—”
“Good. Then you’ll help to bring that about.”
“I’ll help you to find another solution.”
“There is no other solution,” Henry insisted. “The price of Fulk’s alliance was your hand in marriage.”
“I can’t marry a lowly count,” she retorted, feeling her initial horror giving way before the force of the King’s arguments.
“How many kings or emperors are there available, eh?”
“That’s beside the—”
“Didn’t think of that, did you?”
Maud fell silent. All that her father said was true: The marriage would ensure the safety of the Norman realm; as Queen of England it would be to her political advantage. But, quite unaccountably, the woman in her rebelled, recoiling in protest and dismay at the unequal, loveless match.
“Geoffrey will not be fourteen forever, Daughter,” the King said, sensing a chink in her resistance. “Bear in mind that when you are twenty-nine he will be only twenty. A good age to pleasure an older woman and continue to fill her womb with lusty sons!” He gave her a suggestive wink.
Maud suddenly had an image of her Uncle David of Scotland’s thirteen-year-old son whom he had brought to attend the homage ceremony: an ungainly, coltish boy, clumsy and unsure of himself, with a spotty face and fuzzy down on his chin like a newborn chick. Undoubtedly, the young Geoffrey would be like that, regardless of what her father said.
Quite without warning she was assailed by the memory of Stephen’s lips on hers, the heat of desire in his eyes, the warmth of his smile, the spell of his vibrant manliness. With every fiber of her being she ached to belong to her cousin, whether or not he ever claimed her. Her heart cried out in protest at the thought of an untried youth touching one hair of her head.
“As far as Geoffrey’s status is concerned,” the King continued, “for a few years perhaps, you will be a countess. But not for long, Madam, not for long.” He rolled his eyes upward. “By God’s splendor, I’m not a well man, no, not well at all. In confidence, my physicians have given me only a year or two at the most.”
She stared at him suspiciously. She knew that he was not in the best of health, but he would say anything now to persuade her.
“It’s true,” he insisted. “Soon you will be queen, and Geoffrey will be king. Can it matter then that he was once a count? Of course not.” He came to rest beside her stool. “Meanwhile, Anjou marries Normandy, and Maud and Geoffrey make the best of it. Such are empires made. We must all make personal sacrifices.”
“We? I notice it is I who makes the sacrifice, not you,” she retorted. “As I did when I was nine. Then I had little choice. This time I do.”
The King’s face grew red. “You have no choice, Madam, none at all. You, like myself, like all rulers, must marry where expediency dictates. Our lives are not our own. Agreement and choice don’t enter into it.” His voice became confidential. “Geoffrey will have to spend much of his time in Anjou and keep an eye on Normandy. Rarely, if ever, will he have occasion to come to England. After you have given the realm a handful of sons, you can go your separate ways, eh?”
Maud could not bring herself to reply. Every instinct rebelled at this denial of her power of choice.
“As future queen, surely you see where your duty lies,” the King said, pressing his advantage. “Private need must give way before the public weal. A ruler is as worthy as he serves the needs of his realm.”
Maud stiffened. Duty. Sacrifice. Even thus had the Emperor spoken. She had been serving the needs of the realm, she realized, since she was nine years old, a martyr to duty and sacrifice. Of course she wanted to be queen, but, because of Stephen, she had become fully aware of what that would mean: her private needs never fulfilled; personal happiness forever denied her. Surely there must be a way to escape this trap.
A course of action suddenly presented itself. Did she dare follow it?
“Who knows of this proposed marriage?” she asked.
“Just Fulk, myself, and Geoffrey, I imagine. The Bishop of Salisbury. Why?” The King’s eyes narrowed.
“You can’t marry me to anyone without your council’s knowledge.” Her voice was triumphant. “You swore an oath to your barons, remember?”
The shaft had gone home and King Henry’s hooded eyes assumed the cruel, predatory aspect of a hawk. “I made my agreement with Fulk first. It precedes any later oath.”
“You didn’t tell that to your magnates, did you?” she reminded him. “It’s no light matter to break an oath of this kind.”
“The oath is not binding if I was forced to swear it,” he told her. “It was necessary that all swear to honor you as queen. Nothing else mattered then, nothing else matters now.”
“Normandy and Anjou have always been enemies, and if the council knew of your intention to marry me to an Angevin, they would forbid it.”
“They would try. But all that strife is in the past. Over and done with. I will do what is needful, with or without my barons’ agreement. Does the shepherd ask his sheep wither he should lead them?”
It was just as she had suspected. “You don’t intend to tell them!”
“When you’re safely betrothed—that is time enough for my barons to know. They can do nothing then.”
Maud rose from the stool and walked to the turret window, staring down at the Thames flowing darkly under the slate gray sky, the purple shadows gathering over the courtyard. She had the weapon she needed.
“If you insist on going through with this travesty of a marriage—I will be obliged to tell the barons.” She held her breath. The fateful words of defiance had been spoken. The world had not tumbled apart.
Then, behind her, she heard a choked gasp. She turned quickly. Her father’s face was an alarming shade of purple and he made strangling sounds in his throat. Holy Mother of God, what had she done? Maud ran to the table and poured wine into a goblet. With trembling hands, Henry lifted the goblet to his lips.
“You wouldn’t dare,” he wheezed, taking short, heavy breaths as he sank onto the stool Maud had just vacated.
“Sire, I would do anything to prevent this marriage,” she cried, sinking to her knees in front of him. “Anything. I beg of you, please reconsider. I’m sure we can find an alternative to placate Fulk of Anjou and win his support. There must be someone more suitable I can marry. Even a duke would not be unacceptable.”
Rising slowly, Henry grabbed Maud by the shoulders and shook her so roughly she winced with pain. “You shall not defy me, do you hear? A husband has been found for you, the contract has been signed, and you will marry him! Accept it! Damn you, woman, for a willful, rebellious bitch! If you weren’t so vital to my plans, I tell you I would—” He did not finish his sentence.
Maud tried to tear herself from his grasp but his fingers were like iron hooks digging into her flesh. “You will do it!”
Thoroughly frightened now, Maud stubbornly shook her head.
He threw her away from him with such force, she lost her balance and had to grab the table to keep from falling. For a moment they stood staring at each other, their jaws thrust forward in exactly the same manner. Without a word, she started for the door.
“Wait! Do not leave just yet,” the King gasped, as he lumbered after her. “Perhaps, yes, perhaps I’ve been too hasty. Overzealous.”
Surprised, she turned to face him.
“I’m sure we can find a way to resolve our differences, eh?” Henry’s face, wiped clean of expression now, was returning to its normal color. “Let me fetch Bishop Roger. We’ll all put our heads together and decide what must be done.”
“Rest, Sire, let me fetch him for you. And your physician as well.” Maud put her hand on the door.
Strong fingers shot out to grip her arm. “No need. The air will clear my head. Wait here.”
Alone, Maud walked unsteadily to the window seat and sat down. The waves of resentment and rage that racked her body gradually subsided, to be replaced by a sense of satisfaction. She had held her ground, and, whatever the ultimate outcome, at least bought herself a little time. What an old sorcerer he was, she thought, really outrageous, trying to hoodwink his barons and very nearly succeeding.
Time, Maud realized, was really all she needed. If, somehow, she could stave off this marriage, or any other, then her father might die while she was still free. In that event she could make her own marriage—or, at least, have more of a say in it than she did now. Perhaps she could never wed Stephen but unmarried, at least, she could share part of her life with him. Half a loaf was better than none. A pang of guilt shot through her at the thought of the King’s death. How could she contemplate his passing in such a dispassionate way? Yet it would solve so many problems!
After a while, Maud lifted her head and, glancing out the window, saw that dusk had fallen. The courtyard was brightly lit with flaring torches; men-at-arms paced back and forth.
The chamber had grown cold and the coals in the brazier were nearly gone. Where was the King? She had lost track of time, but surely he should have returned by now. And if he did not intend to return, why had no one come for her? She decided to see for herself.
Opening the door, she saw two guards who had not been there before. As she put a foot across the threshold, the guards thrust their spears in front of the open doorway, barring her path.
“The King’s order, my lady,” one said. “You may not leave.”