HENRY OF ANJOU STOOD on the slippery bank of the river, oblivious to the October rain that had been falling for three days now. Across the Thames he could see Stephen’s azure pavilion, the guards walking to and fro, their shoulders hunched against the rain.
Behind him Henry could hear the murmur of voices: the Bishop of Hereford and the Earl of Leicester, who had recently defected from Stephen to join his cause, scheming to get him to sign that damned treaty. The treaty of Winchester everyone was calling it, after the sly serpent, Bishop Henry of Winchester. His jaw jutted out and he gritted his teeth. Well, let them rack their heads and scheme away. He had no intention of signing any treaty. He had come to England to do battle, by God, and battle he would do until the usurper was defeated.
Henry’s eyes smoldered. Was the Bishop of Winchester foolish enough to imagine that the volatile Eustace would honor any treaty that cut him out of the succession? His great-grandfather, the mighty William, had not relied on treaties but conquest. His grandfather, Henry, had done away with his enemies: no agreements to be broken, no loose ends left dangling that might rise up in the future and threaten all that had been won. Suddenly his eyes narrowed.
Across the river Stephen appeared out of the mist, accompanied by his brother and William of Ypres. Imposing in a purple mantle, Stephen walked along the riverbank, deep in conversation with the Bishop of Winchester. The Thames narrowed at this juncture and barely sixty yards separated Henry from the King. On impulse he bent to pick up a stone that lay in the mud.
“Is it too wet for you to fight, Sire?” he called out, slicing the stone through the air. As he had intended, the small rock landed well short of Stephen.
Stephen turned, drawing his sword with such speed Henry blinked in surprise. Incredibly fast for a man his age, Henry thought, impressed despite himself. Here was a worthy opponent indeed. Several guards ran to Stephen’s side; one raised his spear and took aim. Henry held his ground. For a wild moment he hoped the guard would actually throw the spear; at least that would be an excuse to attack Stephen’s forces. His pulse quickened at the thought of plunging into action. But the King restrained the guard’s raised arm as he peered through the veil of rain trying to see from where the voice and stone had come. Finally he spotted Henry across the bank and after a moment’s hesitation sheathed his sword.
“It’s never too wet for me to fight,” he called back. “Left to myself I would have done battle long since, and this day would you be resting in my dungeons. But my barons will have peace at any cost.”
“Then let us meet in single combat and decide the issue once and for all,” Henry shouted.
Stephen pushed back the hood of his cloak. Drops of rain fell onto his beard. “Do you tire of life so soon? I do not challenge untried youths to single combat.”
Henry was filled with rage as he heard the mocking laughter of the Flemish captain. He was about to make a hot retort when the Earl of Leicester grabbed him firmly by the arm and steered him down the bank.
“He’s baiting you, my lord, come away. Please be more circumspect in future—that guard might have thrown his spear.”
“Would that he had. We might have seen some fighting then,” Henry snarled. “My destiny is not to die on a muddy riverbank, I assure you.”
He stomped into his tent. By God’s splendor, how ironic that the only person who felt as he did, who wanted the matter settled by combat rather than treaty, was his greatest enemy.
Maud landed at Wareham in mid-October accompanied by two knights from Rouen. A party of three was not likely to call attention to itself, and these were men she knew she could trust. After resting the night in an inn, she spent the following day buying three mounts for herself and her companions. To further conceal her identity she intended to ride to Wallingford disguised as a merchant’s wife from Normandy traveling to London. Until the conflict between Henry and Stephen was resolved, as far as she was concerned there was still a civil war going on. Should she be stopped she did not want Stephen’s forces to discover who she was or where her destination lay.
The next morning, clad in sober gray, Maud began the two day journey to Wallingford. The closer she came to her destination, the more fearful she became of risks that might present themselves. A member of Stephen’s forces might find her face familiar and decide to hold her for ransom. She would be a rich prize for anyone. Then there was always the possibility of someone from the stronghold of Wallingford itself recognizing her and informing Henry, who, furious at what he would consider her meddling, was certain to put a stop to her plans. At all costs her son must not find out she was in England. Not now, not ever, if she could prevent it.
Doubts assailed her, and by the following day she was tempted to turn back to the coast. Then, across the wooded downs, she caught a glimpse of the gray walls of Reading Abbey where her father lay buried. The thought of King Henry gave her the strength to go on and accomplish her mission.
It was mid-afternoon when the road suddenly turned and Maud faced a river, swollen from the rains, spanned by a narrow wooden bridge. In the distance she could see the misty towers of Wallingford. A light drizzle began to fall.
“Let us cross the river before the rain becomes heavier, my lady,” one of the knights said with an anxious look at the turbulent water. “If the rains continue the water could sweep away the bridge.”
“I don’t intend to cross the river,” Maud said, knowing the time had come to swear the knights to secrecy, trusting them not to betray her destination.
The two knights exchanged startled glances. “But the King holds the right bank and Duke Henry the left bank. In order to get to the left side we must cross the river.”
“We remain on the right bank,” she said, explaining what she intended to do and making the knights swear never to reveal it.
Ignoring their dumbfounded expressions, Maud turned her palfrey and started down the right bank of the river toward Stephen’s camp.
Stephen was dozing inside his pavilion when he became aware of raised voices outside. He had returned from noon Mass and been seized with an attack of queasiness accompanied by the usual feeling of weakness. Such attacks were becoming more frequent of late.
“In God’s name, Walter,” he finally called to his squire, “what is all that noise about?”
The squire opened the tent flap that served as a door. “Sorry to disturb you, Sire, but there is a woman here who insists on seeing you. We have been trying to escort her out of the camp but she refuses to go.”
Stephen sat up with a yawn, relieved that the discomfort had begun to ease off. “Woman? What woman? A camp follower?”
“Oh no, Sire, a very respectable lady, but she won’t give her name.”
“Is she alone?”
“Yes, Sire.”
Intrigued, Stephen rose to his feet. “Show her in, show her in. She sounds harmless enough.” He winked at Walter. “After all, if a lady is that eager to see me, how can I disappoint her?”
The squire grinned and left. Stephen looked at the jumble of hauberks, clothes, and weapons scattered across the tent, wondering if the place was fit to receive a female visitor. He set two stools near the charcoal brazier and, finding two wooden cups on the floor, put them on a small oak chest beside a flagon of wine.
Presentable enough, he decided with another yawn, trying to fight off the enervating weakness that was still with him. As he had told his physicians, except for the occasional pain, he did not feel ill so much as apathetic. The forced inactivity of the last two months depressed him; the constant pressure of his brother and barons urging him to sign Bishop Henry’s damned treaty infuriated him. In fact, there was nothing wrong with him, he decided, that would not immediately be cured by a resounding battle with Henry of Anjou’s forces.
He hoped the meeting with this unknown woman would take his mind off the deadlock with his magnates and the ever-present, gnawing worry about Eustace.
After hearing the details of the treaty that would disinherit him, his son had flown into a violent rage despite Stephen’s assurances that he would never sign such a document. He had then stormed out of the camp cursing both his father and his uncle of Winchester, laid waste the estates that supported Henry of Anjou, then senselessly attacked the monastery holdings of Bury St. Edmunds. The alarmed monks had appealed to Stephen for aid, and yesterday he had sent a troop of soldiers to bring back Eustace.
Since then he had received no word. Stephen had worn his knees raw in daily prayer, beseeching Our Lord for a miracle to occur that would transform his evil-tempered son into a man of wisdom and calm disposition. With a sigh he walked toward the door of the pavilion.
As Maud approached the azure pavilion she remembered so well from the sieges at Arundel and Oxford, she was seized by panic. Certain she could not now go through with her plan, she turned to the squire and told him she had changed her mind.
The tent door opened and Stephen, his green eyes disbelieving in a face suddenly drained of color, stood transfixed in the entrance. Maud’s breath caught in her throat, her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth, and her heart pounded so heavily she thought it would burst. For what seemed like a small eternity they stared at each other. Stephen recovered first.
“This woman is known to me,” he said in a hoarse voice. Then, stepping forward, he grasped Maud firmly by the arm, led her into the tent, and shut the door behind them.
Inside, Stephen indicated one of the stools, then poured wine into two cups, spilling almost half the contents of the flagon. Maud threw back the hood of her cloak, and sat down, her trembling fingers tightly laced together. During the long hours she had spent agonizing over what she would say, she had not imagined that the impact of seeing him would be so overwhelming. It was virtually impossible to take her eyes off him. Despite the fact that he was over fifty years of age, the tall lean body clad in a rumpled blue tunic appeared unchanged. Although the golden-brown hair and beard were heavily speckled with silver, this only lent an air of majesty to his face, a face furrowed by lines of strain but still arresting, still comely. She felt the familiar surge of blood race through her veins, as her body, roused from a long sleep, began to stir with new life.
What did Stephen see, Maud wondered, fearful of what she might find in his gaze. After all, she was only a few years his junior. But the familiar eyes with their golden specks mirrored only her own admiration, her own realization that neither time nor war, betrayal nor revenge, had managed to sever the ties between them.
She took a deep breath and collected herself. “Let me explain why I am here,” she began.
At her words a mask shuttered his face and the affinity in his eyes abruptly cooled. “I know well enough why you are here,” he said with an impatient gesture. “You hope to persuade me to sign my brother’s treaty. Did Duke Henry send you? An odd choice of emissary, I would have thought.”
“Henry does not even know I’m in England, much less in your camp. I left Normandy in great haste and secrecy.”
Stephen gave an incredulous laugh. “If not Henry, then Brian FitzCount sent you. I heard that Brian had left Wallingford. Did he persuade you to this fruitless errand?”
“He didn’t have to persuade me. Once I heard the terms of the treaty, and that neither you nor Henry would sign it, I knew something had to be done.”
Stephen took a swallow of wine. “And you thought me the easier mark than your flint-hearted son?”
Maud flushed, for he was not far off the truth. “It’s a sound treaty and would put an end to this terrible conflict.”
Stephen’s whole body grew rigid. “Naturally you would approve since your son inherits and mine does not.”
“You would remain king for the rest of your life with no loss of honor. The barons want peace, Stephen, they recognize that Henry is the future. Come, be reasonable.”
“What the barons want is no longer important to me,” he countered in a bitter voice. “And the rest of my life is not so long as it once was.” He grimaced, as if in pain, and put a hand to his side.
“What does that mean?” she asked, hearing the tremor in her voice. “Are you unwell?”
“Something I ate. Naught to worry about,” he said, brushing off her concern. “What I meant was that the years of conflict have taken their toll. I’m sick unto death of the whole sorry business.”
“And I. The war has afflicted us all. It killed Robert.”
Stephen sighed. “Yes, I was sorry to hear that. There was a time when I claimed no better friend than Robert of Gloucester.” His voice softened as he reached down and lifted her chin. “The years have dealt gently with you, Cousin. You are as lovely in maturity as you were in youth. How my eyes have longed for the sight of you all these years. My blood warms just being in your presence.” He abruptly removed his hand from her chin. “But this in no way disposes me to sign a treaty that disinherits my son. My mind is made up.”
Maud heard the note of finality in his voice. She wondered if she should let the matter rest there; admit she had failed and return to Normandy. The alternative carried tremendous risk: She had trusted Stephen before and he had betrayed her. Why should she imagine he had changed? Reason told her to leave; her heart dictated otherwise.
“There is something I have not told you,” she said in a choked voice.
“If it concerns the treaty—”
“Please, hear me out,” she interjected.
“Nothing is to be gained by further argument. Never will I disavow my own son.”
“You do not have to,” she said in a strangled whisper.
With a perplexed look he sat down on the stool opposite her. “How is that possible?”
Abruptly Maud rose to her feet and began to pace the pavilion, agitatedly clasping and unclasping her hands.
“Against all reason, all past experience, I’ve decided to trust you, for what I’m about to confide can be used to destroy me and everything I’ve worked for,” she began, then stopped.
“Don’t trust me, for I promise nothing.” His eyes turned a glittering green. “Be warned that if what you tell me aids my cause I will not hesitate to use it. It would hurt me to inflict more pain upon you, but still I would use it.” He signed himself. “May God forgive me but that is my nature.”
“Yes,” she said slowly, recognizing the truth and accepting it. “I know that now.” She resumed her seat on the stool. “I don’t ask for promises, Stephen, just understanding.”
“What is of so powerful a nature that you fear it to be a weapon in my hands?”
Her eyes met his and held them. “You want your son to inherit the throne. Sign the treaty and your son will rule after you, far better than you have done, yes, even better than I could have done had I … had I been given the chance. Your son, Stephen—and mine.”
His puzzled frown gradually gave way to a look of incredulity as comprehension dawned. “You suggest that Henry is my son?” he gasped. “No, it’s not possible. You say this merely as a ploy to force me to sign the treaty that will put Henry on the throne.” His eyes blazed with hostility. “I would not have believed you capable of such wanton trickery!”
Stephen rose up so abruptly that his stool fell over. “If this outrageous tale were true you would have spoken. How could you keep such a secret from me? No, no, it is too much to expect me to swallow such a blatant falsehood.”
Maud also rose, her heart pounding. She had tried to predict Stephen’s reaction to her news, never imagining that he would not believe her. What could she say to convince him?
“Listen to me,” she said, seizing his hands in hers. “Why would I lie? Think what you can do with such scandalous knowledge: Tell everyone that I am an adulteress, that Henry Plantagenet is not Geoffrey of Anjou’s son but a bastard. A bastard cannot inherit. You could spread enough filth to cause the magnates to doubt and question my son’s paternity.”
“Who would believe me?” He twisted his hands free.
“Some might remember how hurriedly I left England, with no explanation, and without the council’s permission, to return to a husband I had said I would never live with again. Others might recall that my son was born a month early yet thrived.”
“Jesu! I remember that,” Stephen said in a strangled voice. “It was rumored that he was large for such an early birth, and I wondered at the time, was it possible that he was mine—but it was said that he was the image of Geoffrey, so I put it from my mind.”
“The image of—who told you that?” she asked.
“Let me see—” Stephen began to walk backwards and forwards, running his hands through his hair. “It was—King Henry. Yes, I’m sure of it.”
“My father was an ally in this matter,” Maud said. “I never told him I carried your child, but I’m sure he knew. He would have said anything to put you off the scent.”
Stephen’s shocked eyes intently searched her face, trying to discern the truth. “I still can’t believe you could have been so deceitful.”
“You accuse me of deceit? Have you not just warned me that I cannot trust you? That you would use, for your own ends, whatever I tell you? Can you swear to me, here and now, that had I told you the truth you would not have used it to speed your path to the throne? With such a weapon you would hardly have needed perjury, would you?”
A dark red flush spread over Stephen’s face and he lowered his eyes. “How can I be certain now what I would have done then? But no, I cannot swear to you.” He took a deep breath. “How could Geoffrey of Anjou allow another man’s son to be his heir? Surely a man of his pride would have condemned you the length and breadth of Europe.”
Maud kept her voice steady though the blood was drumming in her head. “If ambition and pride war with one another, who can say which will be victorious? Geoffrey may have suspected, but, greedy for Normandy and England, he would never have proclaimed himself a cuckold. We will never know what Geoffrey believed, but while he lived he was a true father to Henry.”
Dazed now, Stephen sank back down onto his stool. “I’m unable to accept this,” he said brokenly. “The Duke of Normandy—my sworn enemy—is really my son? You, whom I loved above all others, behaving with such guile and deceit? My whole world has tumbled apart.” He covered his face with his hands.
With a compassionate sigh Maud sat down. “Can we not have done with mutual recriminations? I would never have told you if there weren’t so much at stake. We are both equally culpable, Stephen, for all that has happened. Can we not forgive each other and make a new start?”
He dropped his hands from his face and she could see the bitterness reflected in his eyes. “So now you think you have the means to persuade me to sign the treaty. It is easy for you to talk of forgiveness and a new start, but I swore an oath to Matilda that I would not rest until Eustace’s accession was assured. Do I betray my sworn word yet again?”
For a moment Maud let the silence lengthen between them. “We have much to atone for, Stephen. Our ambition, my desire for vengeance—between us we have almost destroyed England. I prayed that if you knew the truth you would help end the conflict and bring about peace. You know Henry will make a far better king than Eustace.”
Stephen rose again and, opening the tent a crack, gazed outside.
“Matilda and I were never friends but her character was not unknown to me,” Maud continued. “If she knew that your brother’s proposed treaty would lead to peace and restore England to what it was in my father’s day, how would she counsel you?”
He turned to her. “As usual you are relentless.”
Maud could see he was making an effort at banter, but from his drawn face, the haunted look in his eyes, it was evident that he was besieged by a terrible inner conflict.
She held her breath while the battle raged, then his shoulders sagged, his face crumpled, and tears glazed his eyes. Maud rose, held out her arms and he walked into them, dissolving the last barrier between them. He clutched her so tightly she could hardly draw breath; his body trembled violently in her embrace and she realized that he was sobbing.
At last Stephen drew back, took a last shuddering breath, and wiped his eyes with the corner of his sleeve. “So that stubborn, hotheaded young rogue is my son,” he said. “Now that I look back, the sequence of events becomes much clearer. To think of you living alone with that fearful secret all these years.” He shook his head in wonder.
“Well, Aldyth knew, and my father. Brian must have suspected.” She told him what Brian had said to her and he smiled.
“Yes, Brian, bless him, was always the wisest among us. I wish him well in the Holy Land.”
He bent and gently kissed her lips, the kiss growing longer and deeper. As always Maud felt an instant response, yet there was a difference. The warm sweetness between them was still there, and the aching tenderness, but the hot obsessive urgency, the agony of being consumed by a passion so intense it must be fulfilled regardless of the cost, no longer held them in thrall. Stephen lifted his head and smiled down into her eyes. A tide of love flowed through Maud, giving her a new, wondrous sense of completion.
“Will you return to Normandy now?” he asked.
“At once. Neither Henry nor anyone else must know I have been here, so I dare not linger. When I left Rouen I let it be thought I was going to Anjou.”
Stephen released her and, walking over to the oak table, poured himself another cup of wine. “As soon as you are well on the road, the Duke of Normandy will be sent an unexpected message.” He thought for a moment. “King Stephen wishes to meet with the Bishop of Winchester, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and the Duke of Normandy. He agrees to sign the treaty and hopes that Henry of Anjou will do the same.”
Tears of joy coursed down Maud’s cheeks. “Thank you,” she whispered, “thank you, thank you, my dearest love.” A sudden thought chilled her. “Eustace? What will you do about him?”
A shadow passed across Stephen’s face and he sighed. “At the moment I don’t know, but he is my cross to bear and I will deal with him.”
From a nearby church came the sound of the Vespers bell tolling the hour of service.
“Do you attend Vespers, Sire?” The squire’s voice came from outside the pavilion.
“Do you go,” Maud said. “While everyone attends the service I will slip away. My two knights await outside the camp and they will grow anxious if I don’t return.”
Stephen embraced her for the last time, then walked her to the door.
“In all probability we will never see each other again,” he stated.
“No,” she agreed. “But our son will sit on England’s throne. We must be content with that.”
“Our son,” he repeated, as if testing the words upon his lips. “Our son.”
Maud noted that the lines of strain in his face had eased and he looked much more tranquil. Having come to terms with her, he had also come to terms with himself. For both of them it was a transcendent moment of profound peace.
Fearful she would not have the strength to leave, Maud exchanged with him a silent look of love, pulled up the hood of her cloak, then hurried from the pavilion.
Before a bend in the road took her out of sight of the camp, she turned to see Stephen still standing motionless in the doorway of his pavilion. The path turned and he was gone from view. The past had finally been laid to rest, she thought, tears running down her cheeks. Only the future remained.