“Are you Mauger?” Ivo’s cousin ignored Berold’s smile, merely grunted as Ivo made the introductions. He was a big-boned man, pockmarked and dour, and Berold was grateful that he had the amiable Ivo to act as go-between.
But Ivo did not seem as affable as he had been in the tavern. “Come on,” he said brusquely. Berold had to hasten to keep pace, dodging passersby and mangy, scavenging dogs. A young prostitute plucked at his sleeve, but he kept on going, for she was dirty and very drunk. Although Barfleur was exciting, it was unsettling, too, for it seemed that all he’d heard about the sinfulness of seaports was true. The streets were crowded with quarrelsome, swaggering youths, the taverns were full, and even to Berold’s innocent eye, there was a surfeit of whores, beggars, peddlers, and pickpockets. He was indeed fortunate to have found Ivo in this den of thieves and wantons.
They were heading away from the harbor. Berold took one last lingering look at the White Ship, then followed Ivo into the shadows of a narrow, garbage-strewn alley. He’d assumed they were taking a shortcut, but the alley was a dead end. In such close quarters, the stench of urine was overwhelming, and he started to back out, saying politely, “I’ll wait whilst you piss.” But before he could retreat, a huge hand slammed into the side of his head, and he lurched forward, falling to his knees. His shocked cry was cut off as Mauger slipped a thin noose around his neck, and suddenly the most precious commodity in his world was air. As Berold choked and gasped and tore frantically at the thong, Ivo leaned over him, in his upraised fist an object dark and flat. It was the last thing Berold saw.
He was never to know how long he had been unconscious. At first he was aware only of pain; his head was throbbing, and when he tried to rise, he doubled over, vomiting up his dinner. Groaning, he reached for a broken broom handle, used it for support as he dragged himself upright. Only then did he think of the money he carried in a pouch around his neck, the money meant to pay his passage to England, to bring his brother home. He groped for it with trembling fingers, continued to fumble urgently within his tunic long after he’d realized the pouch was gone. The theft of his father’s money was, for Berold, a catastrophe of such magnitude that he was utterly unable to deal with it. What was he to do? Blessed Lady, how could this happen? He’d never be able to go home again, never. How could he face his family after failing so shamefully? Papa would not die at peace, Gerard would never be forgiven, and it was his fault, God curse him, all his fault.
By the time he staggered back into the street, he was so tear-blinded that he never saw the horses-not until he reeled out in front of them. Fortunately, the lead rider was a skilled horseman. He swerved with seconds to spare. So close had Berold come to disaster, though, that the stallion’s haunches brushed his shoulder, sent him sprawling into the muddied street.
“You besotted fool! I ought to wring your wretched neck!”
Berold shrank back from this new assault, made mute by his fear. These men who’d almost trampled him were lords. Their fine clothing and swords proclaimed them to be men of rank, men who could strike down a butcher’s apprentice as they would a stray dog. The angriest of them was already dismounting, and Berold shuddered, bracing himself for a beating-or worse.
“Use the eyes God gave you, Adam. The lad’s not drunk. He’s hurt.”
The man called Adam was glaring down contemptuously at the cowering boy. “A few more bruises would do him no harm, my lord, might teach him to look where he is going next time.” But he’d unclenched his fists, coming to a reluctant halt.
Astounded by the reprieve, Berold scrambled hastily to his feet as his defender dismounted. But he was as wobbly as a newborn colt and would have fallen had the man not grabbed his arm, pulling him toward the shelter of a mounting block.
“You seem bound and determined to get yourself run over, lad. Sit, catch your breath whilst I look at that bloody gash of yours. Ah…not so bad. You must have a hard head! Were you set upon by thieves?”
Berold nodded miserably. “They took all my money, and now my father will die-” He got no further; to his shame, he began to sob.
Adam grimaced in disgust. They’d already wasted time enough on this paltry knave. It was truly fortunate that his lord showed such boldness on the battlefield, lest men wonder at his womanlike softheartedness. But now that the dolt had bestirred his lord’s curiosity, they’d likely be stuck here till sunset, listening to this fool’s tale of woe.
Just as he feared, the boy’s cryptic remark was bait his lord could not resist. “You’d best tell me what happened,” he said, and as Adam fumed, Berold did so. He was fast losing touch with reality. Why should one so highborn pay any heed to him? That this was a great lord, Berold did not doubt; he had never seen anyone so elegant. Shoulder-length flaxen hair that was so shiny and clean no lice would dare to nest in it. A neatly trimmed beard, and a smile that showed white, healthy teeth, not a one broken off or rotted. A bright-blue mantle that looked softer than any wool ever spun, luxuriously lined with grey fox fur. Cowhide boots dyed to match, laced all the way to the knee. A hat adorned with a dark-red jewel. Worn at his left hip, as lightly as a feather, a sword Berold doubted he could even lift. He could not begin to imagine what life must be like for this handsome young lord, for there was no earthly bridge between their worlds. And yet there was an odd sense of familiarity about his saviour, as if their paths had crossed ere this. Even as Berold explained haltingly about his father and lost brother and Ivo’s foul treachery, he found himself straining to remember. When he did, he was so stunned that he forgot all else, blurting out in one great gasp:
“You are the king’s nephew! You are the Lord Stephen!”
Stephen acknowledged his identity with a smile, aware of the impatient muttering of his men but feeling a flicker of pity for this luckless butcher’s lad, scared and grass-green and far from home. “Now,” he said, “what can we do about you, Berold?” The boy was looking up at him like a lost puppy, eyes filled with silent pleading, forlorn hope. Stephen studied him for a moment more, and then shrugged. Why not?
“Tell me,” he said, “how would you like to sail to England on the White Ship?”
Stephen had no liking for ships, did not know any man of sense who did; who would willingly seek out the triple perils of storms, shipwrecks, and sea monsters? He was fascinated, nonetheless, by the sight that met his eyes: the English king’s fleet, riding at anchor in Barfleur Harbor. They were very like the ships that had carried his grandfather William the Bastard on his invasion of England more than fifty years past, but Stephen neither knew nor cared about that; like most people, he lived for the moment, had no interest in any history not his own. But he enjoyed pageantry, was amused by chaos, and relished turmoil-all of which he found in full measure on this Thursday of St Catherine in Barfleur Harbor.
Up and down the beach, small boats were being launched, ferrying passengers out to the waiting ships. Only those fortunate enough to be traveling on the White Ship or the English king’s vessel were spared that wet, rough ride and undignified, hazardous boarding. They had just to venture out onto the quay, then cross a gangplank to the safety of their ship.
Stephen was standing now on that same quay, wanting to bid his uncle Godspeed before they sailed. So far he’d looked in vain for the stout, formidable figure of the king. As he was in no hurry, he was content to loiter there on the pier, bantering with acquaintances and passersby. But his nonchalance camouflaged a soldier’s sharp eye, and he alone noticed the small boy tottering toward the far end of the quay. Shoving aside the people in his path, he darted forward, snatching up the child just before he reached the wharf’s edge.
The little boy let out a yowl of protest. It subsided, though, as soon as he recognized Stephen, for Ranulf was a sunny-natured child, given to mischief but not tantrums. Stephen had concluded that Ranulf must take after his mother, for not even King Henry’s greatest admirers ever claimed he had an amiable temperament.
“Well, look what I caught! What sort of queer f
ish could this be?” Ranulf was too young to comprehend the joke, for he was barely past his second birthday. Nor did he fully understand his kinship to Stephen. He knew only that Stephen was always kind to him, that Stephen was fun, and he squealed happily now as his cousin swung him high up into the air.
“More,” he urged, “more!” But Stephen insisted upon lowering him back onto the quay, for he’d seen the women hastening toward them.
“Ranulf!” Angharad reached them first, with the white-faced nurse just a step behind. Catching her son in a close embrace, she held him until he started to squirm, then turned upon Stephen a torrent of gratitude.
Laughing, he held up his hand to stem the tide. “Lady Angharad, you do me too much credit. The lad was in no real danger. Even if he had taken a tumble into the water, we’d have fished him out quick enough.” He was not surprised, though, that his assurances counted for naught; he’d never known a more doting mother than his uncle’s young Welsh mistress.
Stephen treated all women with courtesy, felt protective toward most of them. But Angharad, in particular, had always stirred his sense of chivalry. He knew little of her past, only that she’d been brought back by his uncle from one of his campaigns in Wales. She couldn’t have been much more than fifteen at the time, and he sometimes wondered how she’d felt about being claimed as a prize of war by an enemy more than thirty years her senior. Stephen had been quite young himself then, and had only a few hazy memories of a timid country lass with nary a word to say for herself, downswept lashes and sidelong glances and a shyness that served as her shield. But in the six years that she’d been at Henry’s court, she’d learned to speak French, adopted Norman fashions, and borne Henry two children, a stillborn son and Ranulf.
Stephen knew that most people would envy Angharad, not pity her, for her life held comforts undreamed-of in Wales. The king’s concubine would never go hungry, never lack for warm clothes or a soft bed. As tight-fisted as Henry was, he looked after his own, freely acknowledging all his bastard-born children. He was said to have sired at least twenty offspring out of wedlock, and had made brilliant marriages for many of them. Stephen did not doubt Ranulf was fortunate, indeed, that his mother had been fair enough to catch a king’s eye. Whether that was true or not for Angharad, too, he had no way of knowing.
Hoisting Ranulf up onto his shoulders, Stephen escorted Angharad and the nurse across the gangplank, found for them a space under the canvas tent, and wished them a safe and speedy journey. Returning to the quay, he was hailed by a husky female voice. “Stephen, you fool! My husband will be here any moment, and when he finds you lusting after me like this, he’ll slay us both!”
Stephen bit back a grin. “If ever there were a woman worth dying for, it would be you, my dearest…dearest…no, do not tell me! Clemence? No…Rosamund?”
That earned him a sharp poke in the ribs. “Swine!” She laughed, and he reached out, gave her a hug, for they were kin and could take such liberties without giving rise to gossip.
They were not really related, though, not by blood; it was Amabel’s husband, Robert, who was Stephen’s cousin. While King Henry provided well for his illegitimate children, he preferred not to do so out of his own coffers. For Robert, his firstborn son, he’d found Amabel Fitz Hamon, daughter of the Lord of Creully, a rich heiress who’d brought Robert the lordship of Glamorgan, the vast Honour of Gloucester. Stephen had recently heard that the king meant to bestow upon Robert, too, the earldom of Gloucester. His was not a jealous nature, but he did begrudge Robert so much good fortune. No man so self-righteous, he thought, deserved an earldom and Amabel and a king’s favor, too.
“So,” Amabel said, linking her arm in his, “what sort of trouble have you been up to? I heard you ran down some poor soul in the street this afternoon?”
Stephen shook his head in mock regret. “Never give credence to rumors, love. As it happens, I was being a Good Samaritan.” And he related for her, then, his rescue of Berold, the hapless butcher’s lad. When he was done, she clapped her hands and called him “St Stephen,” but her brown eyes were alight with admiration, a look Stephen liked very much, indeed.
Not that he expected anything to come of it. Amabel was a flirt, but she was also a devoted wife. Like all marriages, hers had been an arranged union, one that had proved to be surprisingly successful, for they were an odd match, she and Robert, theirs the attraction of utter opposites, Amabel as lively and playful and outgoing as Robert was deliberate and staid and brooding. They’d been wed for thirteen years, were the parents of several sons, and Stephen well knew that for all her teasing and languid looks, Amabel would never stray from Robert’s bed. He was content, too, to have it so, for a dalliance with a married woman was no small sin. He saw no reason, though, why he and Amabel should not play the more innocent of lovers’ games, and they were laughing together with obvious enjoyment when Robert came upon them.
Stephen knew that many a husband would have resented such familiarity. He knew, too, that Robert would not-and liked him none the better for his lack of jealousy. Such petty emotions were beneath Robert the Pure, he thought, and then felt a twinge of remorse, for he was not usually so uncharitable. But there was no denying it: Robert had always been a bone in his throat.
Although they were first cousins, the two men were as unlike in appearance as they were in character, Stephen tall and fair, Robert several inches shorter, far less outgoing, with brown hair and eyes, a quick, cool smile. He was the older of the two, thirty years to Stephen’s twenty-four, but people often assumed the age gap was greater than that, for Robert’s was the dignity of a man settled and sedate, one long past the wayward urges and mad impulses of youth. He was a man of honour-Stephen would concede that-a man of courage, loyal and steadfast. But he was not a boon companion, not one to visit the taverns and bawdy-houses with. Stephen liked to joke that not even God would dare to call him “Rob,” and would have been truly amazed had he known that in the intimacy of Robert’s marriage bed, he was Amabel’s “sweet Robin.”
Robert had impeccable manners; he believed all men were deserving of courtesy. He made no attempt, though, to feign warmth as he greeted Stephen, for he drew a clear distinction between civility and hypocrisy. But Stephen did not even notice. He’d forgotten all about Robert as soon as he recognized the girl at Robert’s side.
To Stephen, Matilda de Boulogne was living proof that small packages could hold intriguing surprises. For this little slip of a lass, barely coming up to his chest, so slight and fair and fragile she put him in mind of a delicate white violet-one that could be bruised by rough handling or chilled by a cold breath-bore in her veins the royal blood of kings. Her mother was a Scots princess and the sister of King Henry’s dead queen. Her father was the Count of Boulogne, two of her uncles successive kings of Jerusalem. She herself was a great heiress. This convent-bred innocent would bring to her husband not only the county and crown of Boulogne but vast estates, as well, in the south of England. She blushed prettily as Stephen kissed her hand, and as he gazed down into iris-blue eyes, he was not thinking only of those fertile fields and prosperous manors in Kent and Boulogne.
Amabel had known for some time that Matilda was smitten with Stephen, and she was not surprised in the least, for few young girls were not susceptible to high spirits, good looks, and gallantry. Robert now saw it, too, although with none of his wife’s benevolent approval. He supposed it was only to be expected that a fifteen-year-old virgin maiden would not have the wisdom to tell gilt from true gold. But women worldly enough to know better made the same foolish mistake, and it baffled him that it should be so. It was not that he wished Stephen ill; he did not. Nor did he deny that Stephen had courage, good humor, and a giving heart, admirable qualities for certes. But Robert did not think Stephen was reliable, and for Robert, that was one of the most damning judgments he could pass upon another man.
“Well, I’d best get back to the White Ship.” Reaching again for Matilda’s hand, Stephen raised it to his mouth
. “God keep you, Lady Matilda. Till the morrow at Southampton.”
“Oh!” It was an involuntary cry, and a revealing one. “You are not coming with us?” Matilda’s disappointment was keen enough to embolden her. “I’d hoped,” she confided, “that you would make the journey on our ship. I have ever hated the sea. But I would not be so afraid if you were there to laugh at my fears, to make me laugh, too…” Her lashes fluttered up, just long enough to give Stephen one look of intense, heartfelt entreaty, then swept down, shadowing her cheeks like feathery golden fans.
Amabel grinned; coming from such an innocent, that was not badly done at all. Robert glanced at his wife but refrained from commenting. Stephen was momentarily caught off balance, not sure what to say. He really did want to sail on the White Ship, had been laying wagers with friends that it would be the first ship into Southampton Harbor. But he found himself staring at Matilda’s long, fair lashes; was that shine behind them the glint of tears?
“White Ship? I never heard of it,” he said, and discovered then that any ship was well lost for the sake of her smile.
Thomas Fitz Stephen, the proud master of the White Ship, was not pleased to learn that Stephen had defected to the king’s vessel, for the more lords of rank aboard, the greater his prestige. But he had no time to brood about Stephen’s change of plans, for the king’s son had finally arrived. The Lord William was a prideful, cocky youth of seventeen who’d inherited his father’s stocky frame, black hair, and iron-edged will. He did not have Henry’s ice-blooded control and vaunted patience, though, and soon grew restless, abandoning the ship for the more convivial pleasures of the nearest quayside tavern. But before he departed, he won over the crew by breaking out three of the casks of cargo wine, ordering them shared between passengers and sailors alike.
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