IN JANUARY OF THE following year, 1142, three months after Stephen had been freed from captivity, he reluctantly agreed to meet with his brother, the Bishop of Winchester, and leading members of the clergy. The meeting was to take place at Windsor, where Stephen had spent the past twelve weeks slowly resuming his duties as king while he recuperated from his lengthy ordeal in the dungeons of Bristol.
Since his release, he had deliberately avoided a private meeting with Henry, trying to determine how he should best treat his brother: as friend or foe? Well aware that the Bishop had made himself look both a fool and a traitor with his various switches from one side to the other and now back again, Stephen was sure that Henry dreaded the upcoming confrontation with his peers and himself. But there was no way either of them could avoid it.
As Papal Legate, Rome’s legal representative in England, it was Henry’s duty to officially reconcile the English church to their newly restored king. His task would be made immeasurably easier if Stephen forgave him for deserting the royal cause after the Battle of Lincoln. Despite the fact that Henry had abandoned Maud, organized Matilda’s forces at Winchester, and helped negotiate his release, Stephen was not now of a mind to forget his brother’s earlier treachery quite as readily as he had been while confined at Bristol.
As he sat in his wooden armchair in the small council chamber, Stephen began to feel apprehensive; beads of sweat formed around his neck and under his armpits, and a peculiar lassitude, a condition that had come upon him since his captivity, held his body in thrall. In addition to the loss of his old vigor, Stephen found he was more cautious in his decisions, less able to fulfill the demands and pressures of kingship. Now, more than ever before, his strength was needed to serve his kingdom, yet he could not propel himself into action. According to Matilda, William of Ypres and Robin of Leicester, the realm was in a disastrous state: Geoffrey of Anjou was rapidly gaining full control of Normandy, and those supporters of Stephen’s who had estates in the duchy were rumored to be in contact with the Count, including Waleran of Muelan, who had kept his distance since Stephen’s return.
It was inconceivable, thought Stephen. Who would ever have believed that mincing Angevin peacock could be such a successful fighter? His advisers urged him to make an all-out effort against the Angevin forces, pointing out that if the Countess of Anjou were taken captive, there would be a speedy end to the conflict. Stephen knew this advice to be sound, yet he could not bring himself to act. As his physicians had warned him not to plunge into violent activity until he had regained his strength and health, he had used this as an excuse to do nothing.
Whenever he remembered the look on Maud’s face as he left Bristol, his heart ached like an open wound. That look of mingled love, agony and loss still haunted him, for those same feelings were mirrored in himself.
The door opened, letting in a draft of cold air.
Preceded by the Archbishop of Canterbury, a group of black-robed prelates and clergymen solemnly filed into the chamber. Behind them came Henry wrapped in a black mantle.
“How pleasant to see you, Sire,” the Bishop murmured, stretching his lips into a smile. “Recovering well from your confinement?”
Stephen nodded, unwilling to greet Henry in a friendly manner. Let him stew a little, he thought. His brother cleared his throat, ran his tongue over parched lips, rearranged his parchment scrolls several times, and would not meet Stephen’s eyes. He is afraid, Stephen realized with surprise. Fear was not something he had ever associated with Henry, but fear was something he understood only too well, and his heart thawed toward his brother.
The Bishop then began to speak. After a brief preamble, in which he summarized recent events and formally welcomed the King back to his domains, he came to the point.
“Fellow brethren, Sire: You are entitled to an explanation of my conduct during the last year.”
Indeed we are, thought Stephen, curious to see how Henry would wriggle out of this coil.
The Bishop continued. “I was forced to support the Countess of Anjou because the King had been defeated at the Battle of Lincoln and his barons had fled to save themselves. The land was in chaos and I found myself trapped in Winchester surrounded by hostile troops. I could hardly allow the city to be put to the torch, and under threat of force of arms—indeed, my very life was at stake—I had little choice but to capitulate and recognize the Countess’s claim to the throne.”
Henry paused. The chamber was silent as a tomb; Stephen, exactly as if he were in his brother’s head, knew the Bishop wondered if he had gone too far.
“As the Countess of Anjou has since broken every pledge she made to maintain the rights of Holy Church,” Henry went on to say, “she has forfeited our loyalty and support.”
Once again he licked dry lips. “God, in his infinite wisdom, has since guided events so that the Countess’s hopes for the throne are dashed. With our Heavenly Lord’s continuing aid, and the help of the Holy Father in Rome, we can now support King Stephen, our rightful sovereign, once again.”
Oh, well done, Brother, Stephen thought, a masterful performance. Will your fellow churchmen believe you? I don’t. But then who will give the lie to this farfetched tale?
There was an uncomfortable silence. A few prelates coughed and shifted in their seats. None met the Bishop’s eyes; a few cast covert glances at Stephen to gauge his reaction.
“Will you pass sentence of excommunication on the Countess’s supporters as you did on mine?” Stephen asked.
“Naturally,” Henry said. “On all of them—excepting only the Countess herself.”
Stephen hesitated. Across the length of the table his eyes locked with Henry’s. He could sense his brother willing him to forgive and forget the past. You took Canterbury from me, his glance signaled; I deserted you for what I believed to be the winning side. Now we are quits.
“We are prepared to accept the Bishop’s explanation in good faith,” Stephen said at last. “Are there any amongst us who have not been guilty of an error in judgment? What says Holy Writ? ‘Let he who is without sin …’ I suggest we bury the past and make a fresh start.”
There was a stir among the clergymen as a murmur of consent echoed round the chamber. Clearly, Stephen realized, it was what everyone had wanted him to say. In a solemn voice, Henry then passed sentence of excommunication on all enemies of church and King.
As Stephen rose wearily to his feet, he heard the Bishop of Lincoln say in an undertone to the Bishop of York:
“So we’re back to where we started three years ago, when the Empress landed: England is still torn by strife, rapine, sacrilege, murder. How much longer must the land suffer for the sake of these ambitious cousins?”
ALMOST NINE MONTHS LATER Robert of Gloucester and Geoffrey of Anjou faced each other in the tilting-yard of the ducal palace of Rouen in Normandy.
“Maud has been under siege at Oxford for almost two months now,” said Robert. “How can you continue to refuse aid to your own wife, Geoffrey? Have you no heart?”
Geoffrey raised his hands in a placating gesture. “I don’t refuse aid, Kinsman, but surely you can see how hazardous it would be for me to leave Normandy at this time?”
As usual, the Count looked as if he were to going to an audience at the French court: His red-gold curls and beard were neatly barbered; he was immaculately clad in dark green hose and a lighter green tunic bordered in gold thread. The ever-present sprig of golden broom bobbed in the blue cap perched at a rakish angle on his head. His eyes sparkled like ice crystals as he presented Robert with his most charming smile, a smile that Robert had come to distrust as he had come to distrust almost everything about his brother-in-law, except his relentless devotion to his own interests.
“The duchy is barely won,” Geoffrey continued in the same soft, reasonable voice that had persuaded Robert to remain in Normandy far longer than he had intended. “Many castles still remain in the hands of the rebels.”
“Indeed? I’ve helped you recapture at least ten castles since I came to Normandy. How many more can there be?” They had had the same discussion, in one form or another, almost daily, but Geoffrey still remained unwilling to commit himself to aiding Maud.
Robert knew his brother-in-law had used him, but he needed Geoffrey’s help so desperately that he kept agreeing to his demands in the hope that this would entice the Count to cross the channel.
Geoffrey gave a vague shrug. “Even one rebel stronghold is too many! Don’t think I’m ungrateful, Robert. Your aid has been invaluable.”
“Then in God’s name, man, show your gratitude! I need more than words from you,” Robert shouted. “You know how desperate we are in England for men and arms! Maud is trapped in Oxford, surrounded by Stephen’s soldiers. Brian sends urgent messages to say his forces are not sufficient to break the siege! This has been going on for two months! Two months! Does it mean nothing to you?”
Beside himself with frustration, Robert felt his face grow hot and his temples swell in helpless fury. If this coxcomb continued to avoid the issue—he withdrew his sword from its scabbard and jabbed it violently into the ground to give vent to his rage. The emerald-studded hilt quivered like a bowstring.
“Of course it means something to me,” Geoffrey retorted, his eyes narrowing. “What do you take me for?”
Not trusting himself to answer, Robert pulled his sword from the ground, slipped it back into the scabbard and, turning his back on Geoffrey, walked a short distance away to collect himself.
Ever since he had been exchanged for Stephen last November, Robert had felt helpless and frustrated, as if men and events conspired against him. To begin with, it had taken him almost five months to rally together his party’s scattered forces, establish Maud securely at Oxford, and, throughout the west country, garrison a line of castles for her defense. Still he had been reluctant to leave her, trusting no one but himself to be totally responsible for her safety.
Then, last June, Stephen, who had been intermittently ill ever since his release, had taken a sudden turn for the worse. All hostilities had ceased since the two men had been exchanged, as if both sides needed a breathing space to lick their wounds and recoup their strength. It seemed unlikely that the civil war would be resumed during Stephen’s illness, so, at Maud’s insistence, Robert had reluctantly set sail for Normandy in July, convinced that he would soon be back with Geoffrey and reinforcements before Stephen recovered.
But the weeks had stretched into months while Geoffrey of Anjou made one excuse after another to avoid coming to England.
In late August Stephen sufficiently recovered his health and energy to almost immediately set about attacking the castles Robert had established for Maud’s protection. By October, all Maud’s defenses were destroyed or burnt. Having successfully isolated her, Stephen then proceeded to lay siege to Oxford itself. Thus far the castle held firm, but for how long? Robert’s blood ran cold when he contemplated the grim possibilities.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a warning shout and sudden cry. He reached instinctively for his sword and saw that Geoffrey had done the same.
“It’s only Henry,” Geoffrey said, sheathing his sword.
Robert followed his gaze to the far side of the tilting-yard where a group of men-at-arms, young squires and pages was gathered around the quintain.
“He’s fallen from his horse tilting at the quintain. The third time in a row.”
Robert watched as Count Geoffrey’s eldest son, Henry of Anjou, picked himself up and was lifted back onto his horse by the sergeant-at-arms for another try at the quintain. The boy, now nine years of age, was cast in the solid mold of his Norman forebears. Holding his lance in one grubby fist he galloped furiously at the stand with its two revolving arms, shield, and sandbag. He struck the shield at full tilt with his lance but did not turn away quickly enough; the sandbag swung round, hit him full force, and he tumbled off his mount.
This time, instead of getting up, he lay on the ground screaming with rage and pounding the earth with his fists. His two younger brothers, Geoffrey and William, watched him in awe, the sergeant-at-arms in resignation.
“Henry has the Norman temper, I fear,” Geoffrey said, clearly embarrassed at this unseemly display of personality. “He cannot accept defeat with good grace, but must give vent to his feelings. I apologize for his ill manners.”
But Robert had little interest for his nephew. “You’re not coming to England, are you, Geoffrey?” he said with sudden insight. “You never intended to come.”
Geoffrey’s alabaster skin turned a faint rose. “How could you think that? But you must see I have my responsibilities here. How can I abandon them?” He brushed a few imaginary crumbs from his spotless tunic. “I’ve won Normandy for Maud, don’t forget that. I can’t be expected to be everywhere at once, now, can I?” He sniffed. “Pity that some loyal retainer did not lace Stephen’s food with poison while you had the chance.”
Robert gave him a look of such disgust that Geoffrey had the grace to lower his eyes just as Henry, slung over the sergeant like a squealing pig, was carried over to his father. His hands beat against the sergeant’s stolid back.
“I can do nothing with him, my lord,” the sergeant said. “Young Master can’t seem to get the hang of tilting at the quintain and refuses to try again.”
Robert lifted his nephew from the sergeant’s back. “He would get the hang of it if I taught him, I’ll wager.” Robert smiled down into the pugnacious freckled face streaked with tears. “But I don’t teach howling babies, look you.”
The noise stopped; Henry’s body became still. “Could you teach me, Uncle?” he asked in a choked voice.
“Aye, I could.” Robert looked down into his nephew’s storm-gray eyes, so like Maud’s he felt a chill run down his spine. What a boost to his sister’s spirits if she could see her eldest son, he thought. What a boost to their entire cause. An idea flashed across his mind as he set Henry on his feet and tousled the boy’s bristly reddish hair.
“Since you won’t come yourself, Geoffrey, send the boy back with me, as a token of your good faith,” Robert said. “I promise to see he is kept safe. When he returns to Normandy he will have the makings of the finest warrior in Christendom.”
Geoffrey frowned. “That’s all well and good, Robert, but England is more dangerous now than it ever was. Suppose Oxford surrenders? What then? And what will become of the boy’s education?”
“Father, please, I want to go. I want to see my mother.” Henry tugged eagerly on his father’s tunic.
“Henry will be imbued with letters and instructed in knightly behavior as befits his rank. I swear upon my life that I will keep the boy safe, even as I keep my own sons safe.”
“As you did Phillip?” Geoffrey said with a mean smile.
At this cruel reminder of his youngest son Phillip’s defection to Stephen’s cause last spring, Robert was filled with such a murderous rage that it was all he could do to keep from wringing Geoffrey’s elegant neck. He could hardly bear to think about the loss of his son, much less hear him spoken of in such a cavalier manner.
“I shouldn’t have spoken as I did. Forgive me,” Geoffrey said hastily, as he saw the look on Robert’s face. “But to send Henry back with you is a great risk. He is my heir.”
“Morale is low in England,” Robert replied, bringing himself under control. “He would be a symbol of new hope, of a brighter future, and put heart back into our cause. His presence alone might spur our forces on to vanquish Stephen at Oxford.”
Henry threw himself on the ground and began to growl low in his throat. “I will go, I will go.” His face started to turn a deep red, then purple.
“Not another tantrum! May God give me patience!” Geoffrey sighed in exasperation. “Oh very well, take him then. At least I’ll have peace for a change. My other boys never give me a moment’s trouble.”
Henry’s screams ceased as if by magic; his face resumed its normal color. He jumped up and began to dance wildly in circles.
“Well, well.” Geoffrey observed him in obvious bewilderment. “Either rain or shine, feast or famine. There’s no middle ground with the boy. As God is my witness, I don’t know what to make of him.” He gave Henry a stern look. “Don’t be any trouble to your Uncle Robert. England is a dangerous place these days. You must take great care to behave properly, and learn your lessons well. Be a credit to your illustrious heritage.”
“Of course, Father.” Henry gave Geoffrey a withering look as he wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I understand what is required of a Norman king.”
Geoffrey raised his brows. “Norman king indeed! That is putting the cart before the horse, my boy, considering your mother is not yet queen. I referred to your illustrious Angevin heritage. It seems to me that—”
Before he could continue, Robert grasped Geoffrey roughly by the arm and led him aside.
“Don’t meddle with the boy’s dreams, Geoffrey,” he cautioned. “Henry believes he will rule England one day, and why not?”
“Because the crown still sits on Stephen’s head and no one has been able to get it off—and keep it off,” Geoffrey replied with a frown. “Not that the boy doesn’t already behave as if he were king, a veritable tyrant at nine years!”
“Let Henry’s future fall out as God wills it,” Robert said. “Whether Count of Anjou, Duke of Normandy, King of England, or all three—no man can escape his destiny.”
The two men turned as Henry ran off, shouting excitedly to his younger brothers that he was leaving for England to help their mother regain his throne.