ON THE 28TH DAY of November in the year 1135, Stephen returned to Normandy. After attending to his own affairs in Mortain, he rode to Rouen, arriving at the ducal palace late in the evening.
“How is my uncle?” Stephen asked Robert of Gloucester, who met him in the torch-lit courtyard.
“Still alive, by God’s grace, and sleeping peacefully at the moment,” Robert said, signing himself. “Fully recovered from a near brush with death not two months past.”
“We heard as much,” Stephen said. “Gorging himself on stewed lampreys. You’d think he’d have the sense to stay away from the dish, which has always acted as a violent poison in his system.”
“Indeed. This time he had to be bled and purged for several days. It was a near miss, let me tell you.”
Stephen signed himself. “Had I known it was so serious I would have come over immediately.”
“Fortunately he recovered and we thought it best not to alarm the kingdom for naught. In truth, since the birth of his second grandson last month he has been in much better spirits.”
“Which will improve still further when he sees his favorite nephew,” said Brian FitzCount with a smile, as he ran down the steps of the palace into the courtyard. “The King has planned a great hunt tomorrow, weather and health permitting, and a supper in the hunting lodge.” He threw his arms around Stephen. “It will be like old times, eh? By the Mass, I have missed you, my friend.” His face grew serious. “I was so sorry to hear of the death of your son, Baldwin. A terrible blow. But our latest news is that Matilda is with child again.”
“Yes, she is, thank the Lord. Baldwin’s demise was a heavy burden for her to bear.” Stephen paused, remembering the anguish of Baldwin’s fatal illness. “All is well with her now.” He picked up a saddlebag lying on the ground. “I’ve brought with me some writs from Roger of Salisbury for the King to sign.”
“They must wait until tomorrow,” Robert said.
As he followed Brian and Robert into the ducal palace, Stephen paused for a moment to look across the courtyard, his eyes coming to rest on the falcon mews where he had last seen Maud alone. Although he still sorely missed her, the initial agony of losing her had eased. But now, once again in the same surroundings, the memory of that fateful encounter brought back more sharply than ever the searing pain of his loss.
“The Countess of Anjou is fully recovered from the birth?” he asked Robert.
“It was a difficult time for Maud, much harder than her first confinement, but yes, both mother and babe now thrive.”
“Is the break between Maud and her father now mended?”
Brian exchanged a quick glance with Robert. “Not fully. Not yet.”
“Indeed?” Stephen looked from one to the other, his interest quickening.
“You recall the incident last May when Geoffrey of Anjou attacked the King’s castles?” Brian asked.
“Only too well. It’s still the talk of London.”
“I can imagine. Maud returned to Anjou to try to reason with her husband. Thanks to her intervention, Geoffrey agreed to give the castles back, but thus far he has made no move to do so. However, when Maud left Normandy the King was furious. He felt her place was with him, and has still not forgiven her.”
“Fortunately, Maud plans to come with both her children to Rouen in time for the New Year,” Robert added. “It will surprise the King and do much to heal the breach between them.”
“It’s late, and Stephen has had a long journey,” Brian said. “Let us retire now so we may be fresh for the hunt tomorrow.”
As he lay on his pallet, Stephen turned over in his mind the information he had heard concerning Maud and her father. It occurred to him that it would be greatly to his advantage should the King die while still estranged from Maud, but the death would have to take place between now and the New Year, four weeks away, for it to be of any use to him. Regretfully, he dismissed the thought and fell into a dreamless sleep.
Next day the weather brought clear skies and a pale sun. The hunting party left at noon, joined by the de Beaumont twins, who had ridden in from Muelan the day before. By late afternoon the hunters, having brought down two stags, several doe, and a brace of hare, dismounted at the King’s lodge on the edge of the forest. One of the stags was skinned, a haunch of venison skewered onto the spit over a roaring applewood fire, and soon the rich aroma of roasting game filled the air.
The evening was mild and King Henry decided to eat outside. Varlets spread a snowy cloth over the mossy forest floor, laid trenchers, and set out dishes of pike pie and stewed lampreys brought from the castle kitchens to accompany the platters of grilled rabbit and smoking slices of venison. The sun sank behind a purple line of hills in the west. The woods darkened to a deep blue-green; the evening air grew chill. Flagons of wine and mead passed round the fire again and again. Hounds snapped and growled; the laughter grew boisterous. King Henry’s favorite minstrel tuned his lute and began to sing a popular tavern song.
Across the fire, King Henry, well wrapped in a great black cloak lined with bearskin, sat by himself in the shadow of a great oak. Stephen noted how frail and ill his uncle looked, his skin stretched thinly over bone, a glazed look in his watery eyes. He could not repress a shudder at the thought that this was what lay in wait for him at the end. I would prefer to die in battle, Stephen reflected, rather than grow so old I am always ill and unable to do for myself. By God’s birth, the King would be better off dead than to continue in this miserable state.
Out of the corner of his eye, Stephen saw a servitor surreptitiously pick up a wooden bowl of stewed lampreys warming by the fire. With a quick look over his shoulder, the servitor made his way round the fire to where the King sat alone. Everyone’s attention was on the minstrel, Stephen noted, and the servitor’s action had not been observed. That greedy old man, Stephen thought. Really, the King ought to be ashamed of himself, knowing what effect the dish of lampreys had on his stomach. He rose to his feet and made his way round the fire to where the King sat. The servitor had vanished.
“Ah, Nephew,” The King said at his approach. “A most successful day. You knew I killed one of the stags myself?”
Stephen had seen the King aim at the stag, but knew it was Robert’s arrow which actually felled the beast.
“A mighty feat, Sire,” Stephen said. He pointed to the covered dish. “Is that stewed lampreys I smell?”
The King grunted. “And if it is? I know my physicians particularly forbid it, but what do they know?” He ran a greedy tongue over his bloodless lips, as he lifted off the wooden cover.
Stephen eased himself down beside his uncle. “Come, Sire, you will make yourself ill if you eat the dish. Let me remove temptation.”
He reached for the dish but the King stayed his hand.
“Am I master in my own house?”
Firelight rippled across Henry’s face like waves on a dark shore. With a deliberate gesture he dipped his fingers into the lampreys and put some into his mouth.
“Ambrosia,” he said, licking his fingers. “Those learned men of medicine told me I would be dead and buried well over five years ago. But here I am.”
It would be so easy to simply remove the dish, Stephen realized, hesitating. A conflict of emotions began to rage within him: affection and gratitude for the uncle who had showered him with honors and wealth warred with his resentment at being passed over for the crown. He finally reached out to grasp the dish.
“I have cheated death thus far,” the King said, chewing the eels with relish, and barring Stephen’s hand with a surprisingly strong arm. “Leave me be.”
Powerless now to stop him, Stephen watched in horrified fascination as the King plunged his hand again and again into the wooden bowl until it was scraped clean. He washed the last of the lampreys down with a tankard of wine, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“See?” he said with a loud belch. “No ill effects at all.”
Stephen gave him a weak smile. The matter was truly in God’s hands now, he thought, absolving himself of any wrongdoing. He waited anxiously by the King’s side but nothing happened. The eels were not going to affect him after all, Stephen thought, both relieved and disappointed.
After a time, Stephen saw Robert detach himself from the others and thread this way through the seated men.
“Would you like to retire now, Father?” Robert asked as he approached the King.
King Henry yawned. “Yes. The day’s outing has done me good. I should sleep well tonight.” A sudden spasm crossed his face.
A chill ran down Stephen’s spine. “What is it, Sire?”
“I—the—” The King’s mouth gaped like a hooked fish but no words came forth. His eyes rolled upward into his head, a white froth bubbled from his lips, and he fell backwards, clutching his bloated stomach.
His uncle had the look of death on his face, Stephen realized, surprised at how numb and frozen he suddenly felt. Then he saw the wooden bowl lying near the King’s body. Had Robert noticed it ?
“The King has been taken ill,” Robert cried, bending over his father’s prostrate form. “We must get him into the lodge at once.” Everyone ran to the King’s side. Robert beckoned to William of Warrenne, Earl of Surrey. “Ride at once to Rouen and bring the physicians back with you. Hurry.”
Stephen rose. Without quite knowing why, for he had done nothing to feel guilty about, he attempted to conceal the dish with his body before kicking it backwards into the woods.
Brian and the twins crowded round the King’s body and together they carried him into the hunting lodge. Robert and Stephen followed. The rest of the hunting party were made to wait outside.
“By the Mass,” Robert said, looking down at his father, “I don’t understand it. One moment he is fine and the next he is stricken. Stephen, did you see what happened?”
“No. As far as I could tell, it occurred exactly as you said.”
The King began to vomit uncontrollably, gasping for breath, while the distraught nobles hovered over him. As Rouen lay six leagues distant from the woods of Lyons-la-Forêt, it was dawn before the Earl of Surrey finally returned with the physicians. They examined the contents of the King’s stomach, then poked and prodded his distended belly. The King moaned and managed to rasp out a few choked words:
“Maud—” he croaked, lifting his head. “Stephen—” His eyes closed and his head fell back.
“There’s no mystery here, my lords. The King has been eating stewed lampreys again,” said one of the doctors with a severe look at Robert. “He was forbidden the dish, and has not abided by this salutary counsel. I fear there is little we can do now.”
“How did he manage to get hold of stewed lampreys?” asked Robert, looking at the shocked group. “Who would be so wicked as to give him any?” His eyes slowly scanned the five nobles present, all of whom vehemently denied knowledge of the act.
Stephen held his breath, waiting for the condemning voice, the accusing finger. But no one paid him the slightest attention. The physicians bled King Henry with leeches, and attempted to pour various potions down his throat, to no avail. Several times he attempted speech but was only able to make rattling sounds in his throat.
At midday one of the doctors turned to Robert. “I fear it is close to the end, my lord, for his heartbeat is so faint I can barely hear it. Send for the Archbishop of Rouen. The King won’t last through the night. Nothing can save him. He must confess his sins as best he can and be given the last sacraments.”
“I will go myself to fetch the Archbishop,” Stephen quickly offered.
He did not wait for agreement but ran from the lodge to where the horses had been tethered. In truth he could no longer bear the sight of the King’s contorted face and swollen belly, or the stench of impending death that pervaded the lodge.
The Archbishop was in Rouen Cathedral preparing for Compline when Stephen arrived. He quickly gathered what he would need to give the King his last rites, then, accompanied by several clergymen, hurriedly left for the hunting lodge.
“I will notify the ducal palace,” Stephen told him, “then join you later at the lodge.”
When Stephen entered the palace, the first person he met was the King’s seneschal, Hugh Bigod, on his way to Compline.
“The King lies only hours away from death from a surfeit of stewed lampreys,” Stephen said. “The Archbishop has just left to administer the last rites. I pray he is not too late.”
Hugh, a small man with sloping shoulders and the narrow face of a weasel, signed himself. “So greed has undone him. May God rest his soul and grant him infinite mercy.” He paused. “Did the King make any significant changes in the disposition of his realm?”
“Not while I was there. In truth, he is beyond coherent speech.”
“Pity.”
Stephen gave Hugh a searching look. “What changes did you hope for?”
Bigod led Stephen down the passage, out of earshot of men entering or leaving the great hall.
“Since the estrangement from his daughter, some among us hoped the King would repent of the oath forced upon his barons, and deny her as his heir.”
Stephen’s heart began to hammer in his chest. “In favor of?”
Hugh gave him a sly look. “His nephew, Stephen of Blois, naturally.”
Their eyes met and held. “He whispered nothing in your ear as you bent to solace him?” Hugh asked with a meaningful smile.
Stephen hesitated. An image of Maud flickered briefly in his mind; her last words of rejection echoed in his ears. Hardening his heart, he made a quick decision.
“If the King had whispered in my ear, I would be the last person to be believed in such a matter, for there is too much I stand to gain.”
Hugh stared at him. “What are you suggesting?”
“That, as the King’s seneschal, you could easily bear witness to having heard the King’s last words. If you left for the lodge at once, you could say in perfect truth that you had been there at the time of his death. He will not last through the night, believe me.”
Hugh cast an uneasy glance down the passageway to where a guard yawned. “You must be mad.”
“Am I? Who put the idea into my head? Who regretted that the King had not repudiated his daughter in my favor?”
There was a tense silence while Hugh regarded him through half-closed lids. “What persons are present at the lodge now?”
“Two physicians. His son of Gloucester, the Lords of Wallingford, Warrenne, and Perche, and the de Beaumont twins, with the Archbishop on his way.”
Hugh licked dry lips and scratched himself under the arm. “What you ask entails great risk. I cannot speak for the others, but Robert and Brian will certainly deny anything I say against the Countess of Anjou. It will be my word against theirs.”
“The twins will do whatever I ask, and William of Warrenne has always been favorably disposed toward me. But in truth your word will be the most important.”
“Why?”
“Let me explain,” Stephen said, trying to banish all thought of Maud and what this would do to her. “I propose to leave for Boulogne tonight, and thence to England.”
“Is that wise? Surely your absence will be noted?”
“Not immediately. There will be too much confusion and grief attendant upon the King’s death. By the time someone does notice, it will be too late.” He could hardly believe the words were coming from his own mouth.
“Too late for what?” Hugh frowned.
“Too late to prevent me from being crowned,” Stephen said. Part of him was listening to his words in horror, while another part was oddly elated, justifying his actions by believing that it was all Maud’s fault. She could have prevented this.
He heard Hugh’s sudden indrawn breath. “By Christ, this is no sudden impulse, but a well thought out plot to take over the realm! That crafty brother of yours is behind this, I’ll warrant.” His eyes darted up and down the deserted passageway. “Very well, what is it you would have me do?”
“Come at once to Winchester as soon as the King is officially pronounced dead. My brother and I will have all in readiness. All you need do is swear that the King changed his mind at the last and named me heir. The whole realm knows of his estrangement from Maud and Geoffrey. Your word will be sufficient to get me crowned. By then it won’t matter who supports your tale.” He searched the seneschal’s face. “You understand that haste is paramount? The moment the King is dead you must leave for England.”
“Indeed, my lord.” Hugh gave him a cunning look. “I understand only too well. If at all possible you wish to be crowned before anyone notices anything awry.”
Stephen acknowledged Hugh’s comments with a curt nod but did not speak. He was already regretting having confided in this man, doubting he could be trusted.
Hugh scratched himself again, his face tense. “You ask me to take an enormous risk. What is my exchange for this act of perjury?”
“Surely it is worth something to be delivered from the Angevins?”
“True enough, but not sufficient to make up for a reputation that will lie in tatters before this business is over. There’s my broken oath to consider, losing the goodwill of old colleagues. Not everyone will flock to your side, you know.”
Stephen gave him a winning smile. “I know only too well. But there are others who will champion your words and say you acted in a worthy cause, whatever means were used. My brother has promised absolution from the church, so your immortal soul is not in peril.” He clasped Hugh’s hands in his own. “When I am king I will make it worth your while, I promise you. You only need ask for what you want.”
“The earldom of Norfolk. Title and lands.”
“Consider it done.”
After a long pause, Hugh slowly nodded his head. “Very well, I will do it. And I’ll hold you to your promise, my lord. We meet again in England.”
The fear of discovery would soon be over, Stephen thought, as he rode through the night to the port of Boulogne to take ship for England. He felt no surge of triumph, only relief that events had at last been set in motion and the prize was almost within his grasp. The meeting with Hugh had been fortuitous, like a godsend. How astounded his brother would be!
Stephen was surprised not to feel any remorse over his uncle. The King had had a prosperous, if uneven reign for thirty-five years. His only regret was Maud. He loved his cousin; he knew he would always love her, and because of the passion they had shared together she would probably never forgive him for taking the throne. Yet was that entirely fair?
He argued with an invisible Maud, reminding her that she had never faced up to the fact that no one wanted to be ruled by a woman, particularly one with an Angevin husband. After all, he thought, stiffening his resolve, she had made her choice; he had made his. So be it.
No sooner had Stephen taken ship from the port of Wissant in Boulogne than a great storm arose. Lightning forked across a black sky, followed by claps of thunder. A torrential rain rocked the ship and the fearful crew wondered what such a sign portended: Was the end of the world come at last?
Undaunted by the storm, Stephen wondered if King Henry had just drawn his last breath, and this was God’s way of acknowledging the passing of a mighty monarch. He smiled to himself, knowing the thought would have pleased the king. In fact, the entire venture on which he had embarked was something his uncle would have understood only too well. The great William, his grandfather, had taken England by conquest; his son, King Henry, had taken it by treachery. Was he so very different, then, from his usurping forebears? He must have inherited more Norman blood than he imagined, Stephen thought with a grim smile.
A day later he landed safely at Dover with a force of men he had picked up in Boulogne. First Stephen sent a herald to his brother at Winchester, informing the Bishop of the events that had taken place in Rouen: the King’s death—which surely would have occurred by now—and what he next proposed to do. Then he rode to Dover Castle, held by Robert of Gloucester’s men.
“I seek entrance to the castle,” Stephen called to the guard in the gatehouse. “King Henry has been mortally stricken in Rouen and is surely in heaven by now.”
He waited while the guard fetched the castellan of the castle.
“If the King is dead and the Countess of Anjou is queen, why have we not been informed by Earl Robert?” the castellan called down from the ramparts. “Why do you wish entrance?”
Taken aback, Stephen hesitated, realizing he had not thought this matter through. He had expected the gates to be thrown open immediately and inwardly cursed himself for not having been better prepared for all eventualities. But the hesitation was sufficient to make the already cautious castellan suspicious.
“I’m sorry, my lord, but without orders from the Earl I cannot permit you entrance.”
Within moments the battlements bristled with guards.
The castellan was sure to report the incident, which would reveal his intentions to Robert sooner than anticipated, but Stephen did not have sufficient men to lay siege to the castle and time was against him. He decided to make for Canterbury, but as he had not slept in forty-eight hours or eaten since the day before, he stopped at an inn for a quick nap and rushed meal.
When he reached Canterbury he saw what his brief delay had cost him. The castle there, also held by Robert’s men, had obviously been warned by the castellan at Dover. The gates of the town were closed against him. Had it all been for naught, Stephen wondered, dismayed at the hostile reception. What did this portend for his future?
When he reached London, however, it was a different story. The leading citizens, with whom Stephen had always been popular, listened to the news of the King’s probable demise in respectful silence, shed a few tears, then gave him an enthusiastic welcome. Without any formal right to do so, the most influential of the burghers called for a general assembly at which they declared they would only have Stephen for king. In that instant, all Stephen’s doubts vanished.
“I will make a pact with you, good people,” he called out to the assembled throng on a frosty morning in December. His tall figure towered above everyone else. A radiant smile illuminated his face; the winter sun fell upon his bare head like a halo of pale gold. A hush fell upon the crowd. The affection and goodwill flowing between himself and those gathered to hear him were palpable.
Stephen threw out his arms as if to clasp them in his embrace. “I will devote myself with all my might to pacify the kingdom for the benefit of everyone, as did my uncle. Here is my solemn promise, before God and all His Saints.”
One of the foremost citizens shouted back: “As long as you shall live, we will uphold you as king with all our resources, and guard your life with all our strength.”
There was a thunderous response from the folk of London, who cheered for Stephen, threw their caps in the air, and carried him about on their shoulders. Heady with triumph, Stephen felt he had attained the summit of his ambitions.