IN EARLY JULY, THREE weeks after Maud and Stephen’s interlude outside Winchester, the court moved to Normandy where it became almost impossible for them to see each other alone. Much of the time Stephen was gone on the King’s business or seeing to his estates at Mortain. Thus he was away when Maud realized that her monthly flux was overdue.
At first she thought she was just late, even though she was as regular in her courses as the bells tolling the eight services of the canonical offices. After nine days had passed, Maud knew she could no longer put off confronting the horrifying possibility that she might be with child.
“What shall I do?” she asked Aldyth, one morning while they were alone in her chamber at the ducal palace in Rouen. She dreaded the reproach she felt sure would be forthcoming.
The Saxon nurse looked at Maud as one who, expecting the worst, is vindicated when it occurs. “When were your courses due exactly?” she asked in a calm voice.
“Eight or nine days ago.”
“Let me see now, that would be a fortnight after you returned from Winchester in mid-June. Did you follow my instructions with the herbs?”
Maud thought for a moment. “More or less. I could not follow them exactly. There was no tub to soak in and I did not remember to take the herbs after the first time—that is to say, I only took them later—” She let her words trail off, suddenly sick with fear.
“Very well, let us assume the worst and see about getting rid of the difficulty. A ride in a jolting cart or running up and down stairs is said to be most effective. Wild thyme, I have heard, often works with dispatch, as well as yellow dock or horseradish—why do you look like that?”
Maud had walked to the window slit to look down upon the courtyard where Queen Alix enjoyed the morning air with her women.
“The thought of—I cannot bear to think of getting rid of the babe,” she replied with her back to Aldyth.
“Naturally, for it is against Holy Writ.” Aldyth signed herself. “But it’s a bit late to be concerned about the wages of sin, if I may say so,” she added sharply. “Did I not warn you what to expect? ‘As you sow thus shall you reap.’ But all that is neither here nor there now. You have no other choice but to be rid of this unwanted seed.”
“Unwanted? For years everyone thought I was barren, including myself.” She turned from the window. “Suppose I were to have the babe?”
Aldyth looked at her in horror. “Have the—are you out of your wits, child? Consider the consequences! Should anyone suspect you carry a bastard seed, your hopes for the crown are gone and your reputation ruined beyond repair. Geoffrey of Anjou would be well within his rights to cast you aside, force you into a convent, or”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“even worse.”
“Worse?”
“If a husband learns that his wife is to bear another man’s child, who can say to what lengths he may be driven? And what do you think King Henry would do to one who brought such dishonor upon the House of Normandy? Not to mention Holy Church! Branded with the stain of adultery—”
“Stop! Stop! You have made your point. I agree we must terminate this—encumbrance.”
But later, as Maud walked down the staircase to the great hall, she was still in turmoil, still undecided. Ridding oneself of an unwanted child certainly occurred, despite the strictures of Holy Church. Women—especially midwives—often came to the aid of erring females who had nowhere else to turn. In theory Maud did not disagree with such a practice. The sensible thing to do, of course, was abort the babe, yet Maud shrank from the thought of destroying this evidence of Stephen’s love. How she wished he were here so that she might discuss the matter with him.
It was too early for the noon meal and the great hall was half empty but for the servants laying the trestle tables, a few barons gossiping in one corner, and the steward going over his accounts. On a raised dais at the far end of the hall stood the ancient seat of the Dukes of Normandy. Maud walked to the dais and reached up to touch the carved wooden back of the ducal chair. Richard the Fearless, Duke Robert the Magnificent, Duke William Bastard—all her illustrious forebears had sat in this chair since time out of mind. One day, as Duchess of Normandy, she expected to sit here as well, and her son and grandson after her.
Her son. She touched her belly with hesitant fingers. Could she really bring herself to abort Stephen’s child? Probably all she would ever have of him for her very own, the only tangible fruit of their all-consuming passion for each other. To destroy this tiny spark of life was to destroy the very essence of their love.
The steward blew his horn and the hall began to fill with the King’s mesnie and guests. Waleran of Muelan entered with his wife, whose face bore a dark bruise on her left cheekbone. One eye was half closed, she was pale as death, and in obvious distress. No one made mention of her unsightly condition for it was common knowledge that Waleran abused his wife if she earned his displeasure, and none wished to interfere in a husband’s conjugal rights.
Briefly, Maud forgot her own troubles as she spared the Countess of Muelan a sympathetic glance, and sent Waleran a hostile glare. The man was an animal, not fit for human company, yet he was entitled to do just as he pleased with his wife. As was Geoffrey of Anjou. During the remainder of the meal, Maud barely listened to the conversation at the table, totally preoccupied with the dire consequences of her condition and unable to decide which course to follow.
“Wool-gathering, Cousin?”
Maud looked up to find Stephen smiling down at her.
“I thought you still in Mortain,” she said, a wave of joy flooding through her as she made a place for him.
“I have just this moment returned. All is well with you?”
“I’ve missed you,” Maud said under her breath, avoiding his question. She toyed with a piece of guinea fowl on her trencher.
“If you could manage to be in your chamber directly after the meal, I would speak with you,” Stephen whispered. “Only for a moment, so there is no danger I will compromise you.”
“I will be there.”
Directly the meal was over Maud went to her chamber.
“I expect Count Stephen,” she told Aldyth, with a covert glance at her women. “Can you take my ladies outside for a moment?”
“You will see him alone in your chamber?” Aldyth’s face was aghast.
“For a moment only. I will leave the door open for propriety’s sake.”
“Does—he know yet?” Aldyth asked.
“I intend to tell him now.”
Aldyth’s anxious eyes met hers. “Listen to me, I beg you say nothing. Not to him, not to anyone.” She then left the chamber followed by the attendant ladies.
There was a note of urgency in Aldyth’s voice that disturbed her, despite Maud’s knowledge that the Saxon nurse had taken an unreasoning dislike to Stephen from the very beginning.
Her cousin appeared a few moments later. “I am off for a day’s hunting with Robin and Waleran, so there is not much time,” he said rapidly. “I’ve found a place for us, just outside the city gates, the home of a wealthy farmer who travels to Paris sometime tomorrow with all his family. The twins and I will spend the night outside Rouen so I must meet you the day after, about noon. Go to the marketplace—”
“There will be talk if I go alone.”
“Then take Aldyth with you. Linger at the silk stall. Gervase will meet you there and bring you to me.”
Stephen cast a quick look at the empty passage, then pulled her into his arms. “It’s been too long, and I’m on fire.” He kissed her hungrily. “Can you arrange it?” he asked against her lips.
“Yes,” Maud said, her eyes darting continually to the open door. Her heart began to beat heavily, her throat was so dry she could hardly speak. “Stephen—there is another matter—something I must—” She stopped.
“Yes, my love, must what?” he prompted.
Maud looked deeply into his green eyes, misty with desire. She opened her lips, but the words would not come. Her gaze suddenly dropped, and she moved back from the protective circle of his arms. She never knew what strength of will prevented her from blurting out to Stephen that she carried his child. With every fiber of her being she longed to tell him, but some primeval instinct for survival bade her hold back. A totally wild thought had entered her mind: She must protect the babe at all costs. Even from the one person she loved most in all the world.
“This is very dangerous—you had best go,” she stammered finally, as he reached for her again.
Reluctantly, he stepped back with a nod. Then his eyes narrowed and he cocked his head to one side. “I have the feeling you did not tell me what you had intended. Is something amiss, dear love?”
Maud forced a smile as an inspired thought occurred to her. “A female ailment. I am just at the end of my monthly flux, you understand how we women are at such times. I should be quite recovered when next we meet.”
Stephen’s face cleared. “My sympathies. You must try my wondrous remedy for ailing females, which I will be most happy to show you the day after tomorrow.” With a suggestive wink he whipped off his scarlet cap, made her an elaborate bow, then started for the door.
“Stephen!” Maud cried, running after him.
“Yes?”
“I love you,” she whispered, clinging to him as if her life depended upon it. “Whatever happens, you must always remember that. Promise me you will never doubt it.”
Stephen’s face radiated tenderness, and Maud felt her heart dissolve in anguish. “Never. How strange you are today.” He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze, walked out the door, and disappeared down the passage.
Holding a hand over her mouth to keep from screaming aloud, Maud ran to the window slit. In the courtyard below, the de Beaumont twins waited on their horses, surrounded by huntsmen and grooms. After a few moments Stephen appeared. Stephen, her heart cried, Stephen, my love. As Maud watched, he mounted his mare and followed the twins out of the courtyard. There was something familiar about his retreating head, and suddenly she remembered that the first time she had seen him as a young boy, passing her on his way to Windsor, he had worn a scarlet cap set at the same jaunty angle.
Tears coursed down her cheeks, her body ached with the pain of her devastating loss. But she had made up her mind: She intended to go back to Anjou and have Stephen’s child.
After a sleepless night, Maud decided on how she might best accomplish her return to Geoffrey. Directly the morning Mass was over, she broke her fast in the great hall, then sought an interview with her father. She found him in his council chamber, crouched, as usual, over a charcoal brazier despite the warmth of the July morning. The Bishop of Salisbury sat across from him, his head nodding. Two old men, she thought, not long for this world, who, between them, held sway over the entire Norman realm. Maud had never liked Bishop Roger, whose loyalty, she felt, could be bought by the highest bidder. Well aware that he had never approved of her as the King’s heir, or the Angevin marriage, she was determined he should not be privy to her decision.
“May I see you alone, Sire?” she asked.
The King frowned. “Why? Roger is in our confidence, as you know.”
“I do know, Sire. But I would prefer to see you alone, nonetheless. It is of the utmost importance.”
He gave a testy sigh. “If you insist. Attend me later, Roger,” he told the Bishop, who rose heavily from his chair, and, giving Maud a baleful look, limped out of the chamber.
“Well, Daughter?”
Maud could think of no graceful way to break the news. Better to take the plunge and have the matter over and done with at once.
“I have decided to return to Anjou,” she blurted out.
“Return to Anjou? To Geoffrey?” King Henry looked as if she had gone mad. “Surely I did not hear you aright!”
“I feel—yes, I feel that I’ve been very remiss in my duty—as you pointed out to me when I left my husband.” Blessed Lady, how she hated to humble herself before him, Maud thought, writhing inside. She forced herself to continue before she lost courage. “You were right—as usual, Sire. It’s time I rectified the matter by returning to him at once.”
The King’s jaw dropped. “But not a fortnight since, when I informed you I had received yet another message from the Count, as well as Fulk in Jerusalem, and the Holy Father in Rome, all begging me to send you back to Anjou, you were adamant. ‘I pray for a miracle that I may never have to return’ were your very words!” He thrust his jaw forward. “By God’s death, I don’t understand!”
His reaction was entirely predictable, and Maud did not know how to counter it. Her sudden turnabout was incomprehensible.
“Yes, Sire,” she stammered, “I realize how it must seem to you, but I have thought deeply on the matter these last two weeks, consulting my confessor and examining my own conscience. God can only look upon me as a faithless wife, and I feel it’s time to make amends. Please, Sire, let me go back to Anjou at once.”
“Faithless wife? Faithless wife?” He pounced on the words with alacrity. “What do you mean, pray?”
Holy Mother, what had made her choose those words! “I only meant that I should have never left Anjou at all. My place is with my husband.”
“Did I not tell you that when you first fled to Normandy? Did I not beseech you to return? God spare me from the vagaries of womankind,” the King grumbled. “If this is an example of how you will govern my realm—” He threw up his hands. “Well, your sudden zeal to remedy the marriage is commendable but it won’t be possible to send you back to Anjou immediately.”
“Why not?” The blood froze in her veins.
“My council now insists they must approve your return to Count Geoffrey, you know that, and they would be quite satisfied never to have an Angevin king.” He shrugged. “It will take time to convince them otherwise. Give me another two or three months, and I will have persuaded them. After all, there is no vital need to rush back to Anjou. Why such haste?”
“I feel the need to make amends at once,” she cried, frantic.
Henry raised his brows. “What difference will a few months make?”
“It will be too late,” she almost screamed.
“Too late for what?” he shot back.
Speechless, numb with terror, Maud stared at him, her face like death, her eyes glazed with unshed tears. She felt like a vixen she had once seen caught in a gamekeeper’s trap in the forest. The more the fox struggled to be free, the more securely did the trap tighten its hold.
“You behave as one demented. I don’t for the life of me understand this wild urgency—” The King stopped abruptly.
Rising slowly to his feet, his brows met across his forehead; his eyes darkened with menace as he held her gaze for a long moment. He raised one arm in a gesture so threatening that Maud shrank back in terror.
“Have you shamed our house?” he croaked, looking like a black raven about to strike. “By God’s splendor, Madam, have you dared to shame our house?”
“No, Sire,” she cried, signing herself. “I have not! I swear it.”
Her father’s face expressed rage and disbelief. His fingers reached for the pommel of his sword as he took a step forward. For the barest instant, Maud saw murder in his eyes. Then, putting himself under restraint, he stepped back, passed a shaking hand over his eyes, and sat down again. Reaching for the tankard of mulled wine on the table, he downed its contents in a single gulp.
“I swear it, Sire,” she repeated. “I have brought no shame on our house.”
The King made no response, his eyes unreadable. There was nothing for it, she thought in despair; she would have to tell him the complete truth. “Sire—let me explain—”
Before Maud could get the words out the King virtually leapt to his feet—she was amazed he could still move so quickly—and held up both his hands to silence her.
“I don’t wish to hear any more. There’s nothing to explain,” he said with grim finality. “You have seen the error of your ways and duty compels you to return to your husband. That is sufficient.” He paused, breathing heavily. “Under the circumstances I see no need for delay. By tomorrow morning you must be ready to leave.”
Maud’s heart pounded in relief. Thank you, Holy Mother, she prayed, thank you. He is going to let me go.
“You will set out well before Prime, and tell no one of your plans.” King Henry gave her a sharp look. “No one.”
She felt herself flush. “But the council—”
“Leave the council to me.” Holding her arm he walked her to the door. “Take only what you need. The rest can be sent later. Aldyth, of course, must go with you, a few of your most trusted women, and an escort. I will send a messenger to Angers at once so Geoffrey will expect your arrival. Everything must appear—natural and in order.” He paused before the oak door of the chamber. “You have thought this matter through, Daughter? It will not be easy to manage and there must be no—mistakes.”
“I know,” she said, her voice steady. “I’m prepared.”
Their eyes met. King Henry thoughtfully stroked his stubbled chin, then opened the oak door. “Well, well, sometimes God works in mysterious ways. We are all in His hand, after all.”
Less than twenty-four hours later, Maud stood shivering in the cold, gray dawn. A heavy mist shrouded the nearly deserted courtyard, almost obscuring the loaded sumpter horses, the armed escort, and the waiting litters carrying Aldyth and three of her women. Beside her, a white palfrey stood saddled, ready to be mounted. In front of her was a man-at-arms dressed in ducal livery.
Maud looked cautiously around, ensuring no one observed her actions, grateful for the swirling channel fog that made visibility difficult.
“You will go to the silk stall in the marketplace just after Sext,” she told the man-at-arms, “and give this message into the hands of Gervase, the Count of Mortain’s squire. No one else.” She handed him a rolled parchment sealed with red wax. “You understand? No one else but Gervase.”
The man-at-arms thrust the parchment inside his hauberk. “Yes, my lady. No one but Gervase. I understand the instructions.”
Maud pressed some coins into his hand, then stepped back and watched until he disappeared from sight into the mist. How she had agonized over whether or not to send Stephen a message. Her heart was filled with pain at having to leave him so abruptly, yet she must be very careful now, avoiding any shadow of suspicion that might reach Geoffrey’s ears. But she could not bring herself to leave him without an explanation. Nothing could prepare him for the shock of her sudden departure, but the message, at least, explained matters so that he would understand.
The King had suddenly ordered her back to Anjou, she had written, without the knowledge of his council, whom he hoped to convince of the wisdom of his decision after she had already gone. There had been no choice, she emphasized, and her father had demanded absolute secrecy. She begged her cousin never to forget her last words to him.
Should anyone else read the message, Maud reasoned, she would not be compromised, yet Stephen would understand.
Grief-stricken, her heart like a stone in her breast, Maud allowed the groom to help her mount her horse.
“Wait!”
She looked up, startled, to see her father emerge from the mist only a few feet away, having been hidden from view by the fog and sumpter horses. How long had he been standing there, she wondered uneasily, hoping he had not seen her exchange with the man-at-arms.
“I didn’t expect to see you, Sire,” she said, having already said her farewell to him last night.
“I daresay you didn’t,” he replied with an enigmatic smile. “But it’s most fortunate I’m here. Far too hazardous to ride this mare. Anjou is a six-day journey away. The beast could cast a shoe, something might startle her, causing an accident. Anything is possible.” He helped Maud dismount and led her to the litter. “You must take better care of her,” he admonished Aldyth, who, speechless for once, nodded her agreement.
“You will keep me informed of how … matters progress,” the King said to Maud, lifting her gently into the litter.
Deeply moved, Maud impulsively pulled the King’s head down, kissing his bristly cheek. “Thank you, Father,” she whispered in his ear, amazed at her own audacity. She had never made such a gesture to him in her life, nor ever, not even as a child, called him anything but “Sire.”
“Well, well,” he said in a gruff voice, “there’s no need for such an unseemly display.” He stepped back from the litter. “Do not concern yourself with anything except reestablishing relations with your husband. The future of our realm depends on it. I will tend to matters here. A safe journey, Maud.”
King Henry watched until the procession had disappeared from the courtyard, then strolled back into the ducal palace. Entering the great hall, he stepped carefully over the rows of sleeping bodies until he found the marshal on his straw pallet before the fire. He prodded the man with the toe of his black boot.
The marshal rolled over, looked up into the King’s face, then hastily jumped to his feet, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Sire?”
“There was a man-at-arms in the courtyard a few moments ago, tall, stoutly built, dark hair, dressed in ducal livery. Find him for me.”
The marshal, who was responsible for the men-at-arms, bowed and left the hall, soon returning with the man in question.
“You sent for me, Sire?”
“What is your name?”
“Jean de Guiot, Sire.”
“You were given something by the Countess of Anjou?”
The man paled. “Yes, Sire. A roll of parchment.”
“Who was the message for?”
Beads of sweat appeared on the man’s upper lip. “I don’t know for certain. It was to be given to the Count of Mortain’s squire, Gervase,” he stammered.
“Where?”
“In the marketplace at noon. I was only doing the Countess of Anjou’s bidding, Sire,” he whined.
“Of course you were.” The King pursed his lips. “There is nothing to fear.” He held out his hand.
The man reached quickly beneath his hauberk, withdrew the rolled parchment and handed it to the King.
“Speak of this to no one. You may return to your duties.”
When he had left the hall, the King called for the marshal. “Send Jean de Guiot out of Rouen at once. Let him see active service on the Vexin border. Put him in the midst of the heaviest skirmishes. Do not let him return in a hurry—if he returns at all.”
“I understand, Sire.” The marshal withdrew.
The King looked at the crisp parchment and tapped it against his open palm. He started to crack the red seal, then thought better of it. Hesitating for a moment, he held the message over the dying embers, then threw the parchment into the fire, and watched while it vanished in a sudden burst of flame.
Through the rapidly thinning mist, the small procession of horses and litters moved out of the city gates of Rouen to start the long journey to Anjou. Maud did not look back. She spared an anxious thought for the man who would deliver her letter to Stephen, trying to envision her cousin’s reaction, anticipating his sense of loss, already sharing his pain. With a sigh she settled back into the litter, realizing she had done all she could; the rest was out of her hands. Forcing the thought of Stephen from her mind, she turned her attention to the vital matter that lay before her, the matter upon which her very survival depended: how to convince the cold and impotent youth she had married that she carried his child.