IN APRIL OF 1149, Henry of Anjou faced his parents in the great hall of the ducal palace in Rouen.
“I wish to cross the channel to be knighted by my great-uncle of Scotland,” he announced.
It was a request Maud had been expecting—and dreading—ever since word reached Normandy that Earl Ranulf of Chester, once again in Maud’s camp, had joined forces with King David of Scotland against Stephen. Maud knew Henry would find some excuse to sail for England, although she was positive his true intention was to stir up trouble against the enemy. The knighting provided a reason with which few could argue.
“You’re so young,” she reminded him, more for form’s sake than anything else.
“Sixteen is not too young to be knighted. I’ve campaigned with my father all over Normandy and Anjou for the past two years now. I’m a man, and fit to be honored as such.”
“Of course you are,” Maud said with a sigh. “Very well, if you’re determined to go, travel only to Scotland for your knighting, then return at once to Normandy. If you keep to the west country, make no show of arms or let your identity be known, no harm should befall you.”
“I understand,” Henry replied with an air of compliance that did not fool her for a moment.
“The boy wouldn’t be foolish enough to attempt another campaign in England,” Geoffrey said. “It’s still far too dangerous,” he warned Henry, “and your mother’s supporters say the time is not yet ripe. In any case a small escort is all I can spare you, which should be sufficient if you go only to be knighted.”
“Fair enough, my lord.” Henry bowed formally to Count Geoffrey, pristine as always in a new indigo tunic.
When Henry kissed her warmly on each cheek, Maud held back the impulse to cling to him. She knew perfectly well that he would ignore sound advice and, however foolhardy, follow his own bent. After all, he was his father’s son as well as hers. For good or ill, both she and Stephen had pursued their own headlong courses regardless of the hazards. She could almost hear Aldyth’s words echoing in her head: “How far does the apple fall from the tree?”
“Take care, my son,” she whispered. As her eyes followed him out the hall, she prayed that he would not meet up with Stephen’s forces. Whenever she imagined her son and his father face to face on a battlefield she felt as if she would drown in a dark pool of anguish. Yet one day it must happen if she were ever to regain the crown.
Retreating from the unbearable thought, Maud closeted herself in the solar to write a long message to Brian FitzCount, still holding his own at Wallingford, asking him to keep an eye on her impetuous son. Beyond that she was powerless to help him.
Six weeks later one of her uncle David’s clerics wrote on his master’s behalf to inform Maud that on the Mass of the Pentecost, May 22, the King of Scotland had knighted his great-nephew. Misty-eyed, she could imagine Henry in the requisite purple robe and cloth-of-gold tunic, holding his shield engraved with gold lions in one hand, the ash-tipped spear in the other. Surrounded by hairy clansmen and dour Scottish lords she could just see him kneeling reverently before his great-uncle to receive the open-handed sword blow that would dub him Sir Henry Fitz-Empress. Now an invincible knight, Henry probably assumed that Stephen’s defeat was a foregone conclusion, and England his for the taking. Maud’s heart ached for his courageous innocence.
Not long after this, just as Maud had feared, she heard that Henry had persuaded his great-uncle and Earl Ranulf to ravage the north of England and march as far south as York. Here they were met by Stephen’s superior forces and, much against Henry’s will, forced to retreat.
In December a message arrived from Brian FitzCount informing Maud that despite being pursued by Prince Eustace, Henry had managed to reach Bristol in safety. Here he had been well received by his cousin, William of Gloucester, whom he had persuaded to ride to the south of England to harry Stephen’s supporters there. By this time, Brian went on to say, Henry had picked up quite a following, having had quite a success in Devon and Dorset. At Bridport, he had even forced Stephen’s lieutenant to take refuge in his castle.
“Listen to this,” Maud told Geoffrey, tears in her eyes as she read from Brian’s letter. “‘I’ve finally persuaded him to return to Normandy and the New Year should see him once more in Rouen. Do not be too harsh on Henry when he returns. Although he cannot as yet hope to defeat Stephen, the boy has acquitted himself with honor. Knighted by a royal monarch, he has successfully won the minor skirmishes he fought, evaded capture, and gained many new adherents to his cause. England will not soon forget this young lion of Anjou.’”
IN JANUARY OF the new year, 1150, Maud sat in the ancient chair that had belonged to the Dukes of Normandy since time out of mind. Geoffrey stood behind her. Henry, elated as a result of his recent triumphs, marched into the ducal palace and up to the dais.
“Despite the fact that I consider you headstrong and disobedient and foolish,” Geoffrey of Anjou said, with a severe look, “one cannot deny that you have proven yourself a leader of men and a courageous soldier.” A proud smile briefly warmed his cold, handsome face.
Henry watched his beautiful russet-haired mother echo the smile.
“In consequence,” Maud said quietly, “I have agreed to withdraw my official claim to the duchy of Normandy.” She paused. “To withdraw my claim in your favor, my son. As soon as you swear homage to your overlord, the King of France, you will become Duke of Normandy.” The hint of a tear glistened in the corner of one gray eye.
To Henry’s astonishment, Geoffrey, in an unprecedented gesture, briefly touched his wife’s shoulder. Henry bowed respectfully to his father, then threw himself on one knee before his mother. Seizing her hand, he brought it to his lips, kissing the slender jeweled fingers with passionate devotion, so choked with emotion he could barely speak.
“I will be worthy of you, Madam my mother. I swear it upon the head of my great-grandfather, the Conqueror, on the head of my grandfather Henry, that I will be worthy of this great honor you bestow upon me.”
Henry had always known the depths of his mother’s ambition; he understood only too well what this gesture had cost her. Before God, he vowed, he would see to it that she never regretted her decision. But inside he was bubbling over with a wild anticipation: Normandy was his. Next—England.