CHAPTER XXVI

 

The Year 1120

The Martyr’s Well

 

Prince William’s train of nobles mounted their horses to continue their journey. On their way to Stephen of Blois’ castle at Mortaine, they had stopped by Saint Guinefort’s Well to water their steeds and rest. They chattered merrily as they rode out of the clearing.

Robert drew his cousin, Stephen of Blois, aside.

“Bide a moment, Stephen. I would have a word with you in private.”

“About what?” Stephen asked curiously.

Robert held his finger to his lips. “For your ears only, cousin,” he said. “Wait until the others are out of hearing.”

He sat down, leaning against the well. He tapped the ground beside him, inviting Stephen to sit.

“What have you got up your sleeve, Robert?” Stephen asked.

Robert feigned an innocent look. “What makes you say such a thing?”

“When are you not plotting some mischief?”

Robert laughed. “How would you like to be the next King of England, Stephen?”

“What?”

“You heard me. If William were out of the picture, how would you like to be king?”

“Are you mad?” Stephen said. “Are you suggesting killing William?”

Robert shrugged. “Accidents happen every day, like the arrow that accidentally pierced the throat of King William Rufus and made my father king. As easily as arrows fly wild in the woods, ships can sink in treacherous waters. Accidents happen.”

“But Uncle Henry is king, and would you eliminate him too? For your information, while I also loathe your witless popinjay of a half brother, I love my uncle. Am I not his favorite nephew? Henry is a good ruler, fair and just. He is a saintly man.”

Robert’s laugh was bitter. “You call a man who killed his own brother to steal the crown and imprisoned his other brother to seize his dukedom saintly? How hypocritical is that?”

Stephen said angrily, “Nay, Robert. King William Rufus’ death was an accident.”

“Yes, of course. It was mere coincidence that my father was in the forest at the time, but then it was not his arrow that pierced our uncle’s throat was it, but another man’s, and it was deemed an accidental death. How convenient. Then was it another coincidence that my father imprisoned his brother Robert, Duke of Normandy, who stood in the way of father’s rule in Normandy as well as the crown? To this day Uncle Robert rots in a dungeon in Wales. Was it also an accident that my father allowed the eyes of his own grandchildren to be put out, calling that justice to settle a petty quarrel? How naïve you are, Stephen. Saintly is not the word I would use to describe my father the king.”

Stephen frowned. “Sometimes I do not understand you at all, Robert.”

Robert flicked a leaf from his legging. “Listen, you goose, I would not harm my father, who fights the church when it suits his own ends, but would not fight the church for the right of his bastard son to inherit the throne. My father’s vengeance may be terrible and barbaric, but it is an effective instrument of government. He plays on the two great motives of human action, fear and hope. My father is a good king, and I would not dispose of him. I would merely secure the kingdom for you when the time comes. I would do anything to keep the crown from William. I should rule England, not that spoiled, pampered brat, whose only right to rule is by virtue of his legitimate birth.”

Stephen’s face reflected his confusion. “I do not understand what you are saying.”

“Let me procure for you the throne, cousin, and when he dies, all the wealth and power of Henry will be yours. We both know you are an ambitious man, and that you are not above being devious to fulfill your ambitions.”

“What about Maude? What about she who is the other legitimate heir to the crown of England?”

“You know as well as I that no one will support a woman to lead England. The custom of centuries determines that the crown should never descend to a female. What if there was a war? A king must be prepared to take up arms and fight. What woman could wear armor, wield a sword, and fight on a bloody battlefield? The idea is ridiculous. Besides, Maude is in Germany, married to the Holy Roman Emperor. She does not need the English crown; she is already an Empress.”

Stephen stared at his cousin with the same expression as the yellow-eyed raven in the branches overhead that looked down on them hungrily.

Robert’s grin was feral, like a salivating wolf. “We shall be patient for however many years it takes, but when my father dies, your brother, the Bishop of Winchester and Abbot of Glastonbury, will support your claim against Maude and preach it from the pulpit. The nobles of both England and Normandy will side with you. I shall see to that.”

“Are you forgetting my older brother, Tibault? He could claim the crown before me.”

Robert shook his head. “I thought of that. Tibault does not care about being king. His only concern is for his holdings. He has Chartres, and that is all he cares about. Look, Stephen, all you have to do is what my father did. When the king dies, be the first one to Winchester, seize the treasury, and the crown of England will be yours.”

“Why are you doing this, Robert? Why are you plotting to kill your own brother?”

“My half-brother.” The dark man sneered. “Because I hate William. Because I believe a real man should rule England, not a strutting chanticleer. I am twelve years William’s senior. I should become king when my father dies. I have been faithful to my father. It was I who picked up his banner at the battle of Bremule and saved the day, yet he throws me crumbs. What are lands and holdings next to the crown which should be mine?”

Stephen shook his head. “Even if such a mad plan works, I do not know how to be a king.”

“Ah, but my dear Stephen, I do know how to be king, and I will rule through you. Can you not you see how perfect a plan this is? As the legitimate son of my father’s sister, you can claim the throne where I cannot.”

“What else do you hope to gain from this terrible conspiracy, Robert?”

“Besides ruling England through you? Your kingship will ensure that I will be granted whatever lands I want, which I might otherwise have no claim to. I want the dukedom of Normandy.”

Robert rose to his feet and began to pace in the clearing. A low rumble of thunder sounded in the distance. “If this were a hundred years ago, Stephen, I would inherit the throne, not William. There would have been no serious question of my right to succeed my father as his firstborn son. You see, we will merely be correcting an historical faux pas.”

Stephen nodded. “I had not thought of it that way.”

“It is not fair, Stephen. I am the one who is most like my father. I have intelligence; I am patient and resourceful; and I have diplomatic skills. I am a lover of books, a patron of writers. William is nothing but a spoiled brat and a hedonist.”

“I am not sure he deserves to die for that,” Stephen said.

“It would be the perfect crime, Stephen. No one in the world would suspect us. I am the saintly knight, brave in battle, and you are pure and spotless yourself. We are above reproach.” He laughed. “Besides, if my scheme works, the whole thing will look like a terrible accident. No one will be blamed, least of all two of the finest knights in the realm.”

“I cannot believe I am hearing this,” Stephen said.

“Think of it, cousin. If you were king, no one could threaten you, especially where the church is concerned. The bloody church rules everything, but a clever king can strip the priests of their power.”

“What has the church to do with this?”

Robert grinned. “Within the past hundred years the necessity of legitimate births has become recognized as indisputable for succession, and what has caused this? The blasted church, that’s what, shoving its ludicrous doctrine of the sanctity of marriage down the throats of the puerile masses. The church, out of the blue, decides it frowns on illicit relations, and so it makes sin where no sin was before. The priests call this advancing morals, so their capricious laws, which are nothing more than another way to control the faithful and fill the treasure chests of Rome, have robbed me of my birthright.”

“I hate those bloody priests,” Stephen grumbled.

Robert grimaced. “When our grandfather sailed from Normandy to England and captured the crown, no one questioned his legitimacy. William the Conqueror was a bastard like me, and a damn fine king. Then the bloody church came along and interfered with business that should have been the province of the sovereign alone. If you were king, Stephen, you could cut the power of the priests you despise in twain. You would have them right where you want them. I could help you do it. I could show you how. This is the card we must play.”

Stephen’s eyes shone. “Yes! Yes, you are right!”

“If you were king you could rule the Pope himself.”

Stephen nodded excitedly. “King Stephen the First,” he murmured.

The raven cawed.

Stephen grabbed his cousin by the shoulders. “What is your plan, Robert? Tell me it!”

“I have thought of a way to sink the White Ship.”

Robert strode across the clearing to his horse. “Are you with me?” He swung himself easily into the saddle.

A sudden clap of thunder and a bolt of lightning startled them. The storm was drawing nearer.

Stephen reached up and grasped his cousin’s hand. “I am with you,” he said. “Whatever it takes, Cousin, I beg of you, make me the next king.”

Robert grinned. “Come on then, let us be on our way before the storm breaks. I shall tell you my plan as we ride.”