THE FOLLOWING MORNING AFTER tierce, Henry appeared at the castle to conduct Maud to the treasury. As they walked out of the great hall the Bishop recited a litany of instructions for her:
“You must send a courier to Geoffrey of Anjou requesting that he send your son to England immediately—although the Count himself must not be encouraged to come. Whenever possible, Madam, it would behoove you to appear as a wife and mother—as the former Queen Matilda has done with so much success. Always bear in mind that no one wants to see a woman in the guise of a man.”
Maud stiffened in protest. Robert gave her arm a warning squeeze. “I’ve already sent to Geoffrey with the same request, but there has been no response,” she said, suppressing her irritation. As if she needed reminding of her womanhood! Sweet Marie, did he imagine she was going to don hauberk and helmet?
“You need not worry about Geoffrey turning up at the coronation, Bishop,” Robert said. “He still has his hands full subduing Normandy, and there can be no question of a journey to England.”
Maud kept silent. As the Normans hated the Angevins, she had no intention of letting Geoffrey set foot on English soil for a long time to come—if ever. Not if she had anything to say about it.
“I’ve also invited a deputation of London citizens to attend us,” Henry continued. “Their goodwill is vital for your acceptance in the capital. I understand they have a special request to make—they did not elaborate—but I trust you will be able to grant it.”
“Certainly I will do all I can to accommodate them,” Maud agreed as they arrived at the entrance to the vaults which housed the treasury.
Four guards with flaring torches led the way down a flight of crumbling stone steps to where the treasurer waited in front of a worn oaken door. At a nod from the Bishop he inserted a scrolled iron key into the ancient lock. With a grating sound the lock turned and the door opened to reveal a large chamber. Mildew stained the lichened stone walls; the air was filled with the odor of damp wood and moldering leather. An oak table, laden with scrolls of parchment, stood against a wall. A massive chequered board marked off in squares, like a chessboard, lay on another table. Clerks perched on wooden stools waited with tablet and pen in hand.
As Maud accustomed herself to the dim light, she heard Robert’s sharp intake of breath.
“By God and all His Saints,” he cried, “what has happened to my father’s treasure?”
In the flickering torchlight Maud could now see the stacks of empty coffers, their lids gaping open like hungry mouths, and the piles of empty leather sacks collapsed upon the floor. The last time she had been here was ten years ago, but she would never forget the awe-inspiring sight of wooden chests, piled one upon the other to the ceiling, brimming with gold and silver, or the row upon row of leather sacks bulging with jewels, silver-gilt goblets, and gold plate. Now there were only a few closed chests and one or two half-filled leather sacks.
Maud’s shock was so great that when she tried to speak she found that her voice had failed.
“You must have known the true state of affairs here,” Robert said to the Bishop in an accusing tone.
“I was aware of Stephen’s mismanagement,” he admitted reluctantly, “but not the full extent of the damage.” He turned to Maud and signed himself. “As God is my witness, again and again Stephen was warned of the dire consequences of his lavish indulgence, his uncontrolled extravagance. Not only by me but by Matilda and the Bishop of Salisbury as well. But he ignored our advice and listened instead to the evil counsel of Waleran of Muelan and the Fleming, William of Ypres.”
“But where has it all gone?” Maud whispered, completely shaken.
The treasurer answered: “Where indeed, Madam. Foreign mercenaries, greedy barons, disastrous campaigns, costly gifts—few who asked went away empty-handed.”
“Some of the expenditure was no doubt necessary,” Henry said with a defensive look. “The first lesson a sovereign must learn is that the way to keep loyalty in a man’s heart is to keep money in his purse or land in his domains. As you shall shortly discover.”
Maud barely heard him; she felt as if the bottom had suddenly dropped out of her world. Despite what the treasurer had told her, it did not seem possible that so little remained of her father’s vast store, accumulated at such cost, so carefully hoarded all the years of his reign in order to leave his heirs a rich and powerful legacy.
From both the Emperor and her father, Maud had learned that wealth is power. Without it her task would be enormously difficult. At the thought of her treacherous cousin taking his ease at Bristol, while she must rebuild the wreckage he had wrought, something curled and shriveled within her. The glorious taste of victory became like ashes in her mouth.
“Be good enough to have clerks draw up an accounting of what reserves we have left, what reliefs are due, the scutage pending, and what credits are late in arriving,” Maud told the treasurer. “In other words, all possible sources of income for the crown. Then draw me a list of absolutely necessary expenditures.” She gave him a sharp look. “From this moment on, expenditures will never exceed revenues. Never. You understand?”
Even in the dim light Maud could see the look of amazement on the treasurer’s face, a look that was mirrored in Henry’s expression. Even Robert was surprised.
The treasurer swallowed. “I understand, Madam.”
She saw the three men exchange quick glances and knew she had made her point: Not a farthing would be spent without her knowledge.
As she walked up the steps, Maud made a silent but implacable decision: Everything Stephen had done she would undo. Insofar as was possible, she would obliterate all evidence that he had existed as king.
At the door a servitor waited to see her. “The Archbishop of Canterbury has arrived, Madam,” he said.
He was the last person she wanted to see. Her attention was entirely caught up in how she was going to run the kingdom in the light of what she had just discovered. “Have him wait—”
“And say we will see him shortly,” the Bishop interjected. “Bring him to an antechamber and see that the steward attends to his wants.” The servitor disappeared.
“I can hardly keep my wits about me after this shock,” Maud protested. “Is it necessary to see him now?” Inwardly she seethed at Henry’s interference.
“I would not delay if I were you. If he’s going to cause trouble let us find out immediately.”
Maud frowned. “Trouble? Sweet Marie, Theobald is a simple, good-hearted man, without ambition or cunning.”
“You may know as much of finance as a moneylender, Madam, but when it comes to Holy Church I flatter myself I have more experience and knowledge than you. That Theobald is without ambition is exactly why he may cause trouble.”
Sometimes she was unable to follow the tortuous byways of the Bishop’s mind, Maud thought, but deferred to his judgment and agreed to see the Archbishop.
She entered the great hall, seated herself in a carved ivory-inlaid chair on a raised dais, and waited for the Archbishop to be brought to her. Leaning on a wooden staff, Theobald of Bee hobbled into the hall dressed in a simple black traveling cloak. Maud stepped down from the dais to kneel and kiss the ring of his office while he blessed her in quavering tones.
“How nice to see you again, Your Grace,” Maud said, summoning warmth and enthusiasm into her voice.
“And you, Madam, and you,” the Archbishop replied.
“I look forward to a harmonious union between us,” Maud said, “just as there was between my father and the late Archbishop.” She hoped the meeting would not drag on. The problem of the empty treasury weighed heavily upon her mind and she found it difficult to put her attention on anything else. All that was really required was for Theobald to agree to swear fealty to her.
Despite Henry’s warning, she was completely unprepared for his next words.
“But I cannot commit to any union between us, Madam, without the agreement of King Stephen.”
Maud could hardly credit what he said and thought she must have misheard him. One look at the Bishop of Winchester’s just-as-I-feared expression told her otherwise. Completely shaken, Maud walked back to the dais and resumed her seat. She gripped the wooden arms so hard her knuckles showed white.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Surely Your Grace believes I have a right to the throne? Stephen usurped that right, against the express orders of my late father and his own sworn oath.”
“I do not question your right to be sovereign, Madam,” Theobald replied. “But that is not the issue here. I never swore an oath to crown you queen. My only oath of fealty is to King Stephen. Unless he releases me from my oath there is naught I can do.”
“But that is—ridiculous!” Maud sprang to her feet, two spots of color flaming in her cheeks. “Stephen is my captive, shorn of all power. Why do you not follow the example of the Bishop of Winchester and the other clergymen?”
As she spoke, Stephen’s words echoed mockingly in her ears: “I am still sovereign and will remain so until the Archbishop of Canterbury crowns you—if he ever does.” And now here was this stubborn old man with the guileless eyes of a saint refusing to do just that!
Theobald looked at her, his innocent round face cracked by deep wrinkles. “My fellow brethren must follow the dictates of their conscience, as I follow mine.”
Henry stepped forward. “We understand, Your Grace.” He came up to the dais and spoke to Maud in an urgent whisper: “I feared this might happen. You must let him go to Stephen without further argument.”
“What! Can you not reason with him?”
“You can see the answer to that for yourself. I know Theobald. For all his mildness he is stiff-necked as a mule. Nothing will change his mind. Do as he wishes or suffer the consequences of having no one to crown you.”
As Maud hesitated Henry leaned closer. “In my opinion Stephen will not refuse him.” His lip curled. “It would be unchivalrous. In addition, the church will look kindly on your benevolence. Such a generous act will inspire trust and confidence.”
Maud nodded reluctantly, recognizing the wisdom of his words. Nonetheless it galled her that acceptance by the Archbishop depended upon Stephen’s whim.
“Good, Madam.” Henry stepped away from the dais. “You’re willing to be guided by me and that is an excellent omen for the future.”
“Very well, Your Grace,” Maud said to the Archbishop, wishing Henry would not treat her like a girl fresh from convent school, “you have my leave to go to Bristol.”
Theobald rewarded her with a saintly smile.
Next morning the Archbishop of Canterbury started on his journey to Bristol escorted by Robert of Gloucester and a troop of his knights. At the last moment they were joined by a group of bishops who suddenly decided it might behoove them to also be released from their oath to Stephen. Maud graciously granted permission to any who wished to go. When the procession left Winchester, she called her council of advisers to help find a solution to the pressing problem of the empty treasury.
Two and one half days later, Robert of Gloucester came within sight of his castle at Bristol. As he approached the curtain walls, he was amazed to hear the faint echo of cheers and laughter coming from the outer bailey. What in the name of heaven was going on? he wondered.
“Is a tournament being held this afternoon, my lord?” asked the Archbishop.
“Certainly not,” Robert said. He looked up and was stunned to find the walls and towers empty of guards and no watch at the gatehouse.
He had left explicit instructions that the castle was to be on full alert at all times while the King was housed there. He had not bothered to notify anyone of his arrival, but that was hardly an excuse for slack discipline and blatant disregard of his orders. Robert blew sharply upon the ivory horn that swung round his neck. Within a few moments he was relieved to see some of the guards peering over the walls, and the watch appear in the gatehouse. When he recognized Robert he quickly lowered the drawbridge.
Someone better have an explanation for this unprecedented behavior, Robert thought grimly, as he and his party rode across the causeway. He trotted into the outer bailey, then suddenly drew rein at the spectacle that met his eyes. A host of squires, knights, and men-at-arms, among them his youngest son, Phillip, had formed two lines opposite each other. Between them raced two horses: Stephen sat astride Robert’s favorite bay stallion and Robert’s son and heir, William, rode a chestnut horse. The guards who should have been keeping watch were leaning carelessly over the walls and towers, waving their spears and shouting encouragement.
Mabel of Gloucester and her ladies, decked out in gaily colored gowns and headdresses, were among the lustily cheering spectators. Robert was astonished to see his wife tear a bright silken gauge from her long yellow sleeve and toss it to Stephen as he galloped past. He caught it in a deft hand. The former king looked almost like a youth again, Robert thought, his honey-colored hair tousled by the wind, his face flushed with color. A far cry from the downcast gray-faced prisoner who had left Gloucester a month ago.
When Mabel saw Robert and the group of prelates, she turned crimson and her mouth dropped open. As the others caught sight of the Earl, the cheering died and the guards scrambled to resume their positions on the walls; Stephen and William slowed their mounts to a walk.
“My lord, no one had any idea you were expected,” Mabel said breathlessly as she ran up to her husband. “Stephen challenged any of our men to ride against him, and William agreed—” Her voice faltered at the look on Robert’s face. It was probably the only time in all the years of their marriage that he had ever seen his formidable wife at a loss for words.
“That I wasn’t expected is obvious. There is no need to ask how you have all fared here,” Robert said with an edge to his voice. “As you can see, we have important guests,” he continued in a reproving tone, “who have come upon a matter of some urgency. Inform the steward at once, Wife.”
“At once, my lord,” Mabel said, scurrying away.
With an apprehensive look on their faces, the knights and squires greeted Robert, then quickly dispersed. William and Stephen hastily dismounted; William approached his father.
“We were practicing our horsemanship, my lord,” he said, clearly uneasy. “Stephen has been teaching us some of the skills he learned in tournaments. I didn’t think any harm would come of it. He’s been most helpful.”
“Indeed, but he is our captive, may I remind you.”
“My lord, Stephen is also my godfather,” William said in a low voice. “It’s difficult to think of him as a prisoner.”
“And you allowed this bond to influence you? Where is your sense of duty? How can I trust you in the future? Whilst you made merry the castle was left virtually unguarded. Because you disobeyed my orders Stephen would have been easily accessible to an attempt to rescue him.”
Robert knew that despite the evidence, neither his wife nor son was totally responsible for the lack of security he had found. He recognized the real culprit. It was so typical of Stephen to charm all and sundry into doing what he wanted.
William looked crestfallen. “I … I didn’t think of the risk. Forgive me, Father.”
Stephen sauntered up to them; behind him tagged Phillip, a youth of fifteen, who gazed up at the former king with worshipful eyes.
“Captivity agrees with you, Cousin,” Robert said to Stephen, forcing himself to be civil. “Here are some guests to visit you. After they have rested and eaten I’ll bring them to see you upon a matter of some importance.”
Stephen smiled at the group of prelates. “An unexpected pleasure, Your Grace, my lord bishops.” He knelt and kissed Theobald’s episcopal ring. “What is this important matter? I’m greatly curious.”
“William, Phillip, take the Archbishop and the others to the keep,” Robert ordered before the clergymen could answer. He wanted Theobald’s request to catch Stephen by surprise, before he had time to ponder the full consequences of his answer.
William did as he was told. Phillip made no move to leave.
“Run along, my boy,” Robert said.
Phillip gave him a defiant look. “I’d prefer to stay with Stephen, Father.”
Before Robert could reply Stephen turned to Phillip. “Do as your father says. We’ll see each other later.”
With a scowl for Robert, Phillip threw Stephen an adoring glance and left.
“I hope you’re not offended by our race,” Stephen said. “It was only a bit of sport. Certainly the Countess and your sons have made my life far more agreeable than I had any right to expect. I am unused to being sedentary and time hangs heavily on my hands.” He gave Robert a smile designed to dazzle and charm.
Robert refused to succumb. It was unworthy of him, but the exchange between Phillip and himself rankled, as had his son’s look for Stephen. “That is a prisoner’s fate,” he said. “You could be fettered and confined to a dungeon, remember. Be warned that I don’t intend to let this unseemly behavior continue. You saw for yourself the effect it has already created.”
“Don’t take Phillip’s attitude too seriously, Cousin. The boy misses you, and he is at the age where he needs someone to look up to,” Stephen said, with that uncanny ability he often had to see into another’s heart. “I worry about my own son, Eustace, with no father to guide him.” A shadow flitted across his face, then he smiled. “Well, what is the news? I’m totally isolated in my golden cage. Your sister thrives?”
It was virtually impossible to remain antagonistic toward him, Robert thought in resignation, as he felt his innate love for Stephen returning. He willed himself not to be suborned.
“Indeed she does. Your brother has agreed to be Maud’s chief adviser; many barons who swore homage to you have already changed sides. Even London is sending a deputation of citizens to meet with my sister.”
“So she is gaining support,” Stephen said slowly. The happy flush that had illuminated his face was now replaced by a troubled look. “I confess to being surprised.”
“Why? Your reign was hardly a successful one,” Robert said, suddenly unable to resist a vengeful thrust. “In fact, what with the state of the treasury and the condition of the land, I can’t imagine how you survived as long as you did. It will take years to replace the damage you have done.”
Stephen flinched and his eyes darkened, but he made no reply. Robert watched him, filled with a curious mixture of regret and satisfaction. Stephen’s confidence was shaken, which was all to the good. The more remorseful he felt the more likely he was to accede to the Archbishop’s request. The Vespers bell rang and they walked in silence to the chapel.
After the evening meal, Robert took the Archbishop and the other prelates to see the former king in the chamber Stephen had been given near the solar. A single guard stood watch at the door.
Theobald approached Stephen, who was sitting in one of the very few wooden armchairs in the castle. It had not been in this room before Stephen’s arrival, Robert noted. Nor had the red-and-blue coverlet on the bed, nor the silver basin and ewer that rested on the oak table along with a bowl of sweetmeats, a silver-gilt goblet, and a flagon of wine. A golden cage indeed!
“Sire,” said the Archbishop, bending his knee, “I have been asked to recognize the Countess of Anjou as Queen of England. I may not do this without your leave. Do you grant me permission to change my loyalties as the times constrain us?”
Stephen blanched; his face worked as he stared at Theobald. Clearly the request had caught him by surprise, Robert thought, not displeased.
Stephen stroked his chin, then tapped one finger against his teeth, weighing the question. Robert held his breath, willing Stephen’s generous nature to assert itself and make the chivalrous gesture—albeit not the wise one.
At last Stephen gave a wan smile. “My lord bishops, Your Grace, you must all do as you see fit. I cannot tell you what course to take in this matter. These are trying times and I judge no man for … for attempting to survive as he deems best.”
It was an equivocal answer but sufficient.
The next day, having issued a stricter set of instructions for the care of the prisoner, Robert and the prelates left for Winchester. The sooner Theobald swore homage to Maud the easier he would feel, Robert thought. Although Stephen had been removed from the throne, he suspected it would be less easy to remove him from the hearts of his subjects.