That drew a quick response from Stephen’s second son. “I’d rather see Paris myself, or mayhap Poitiers.”
The abbot had never met the young Earl of Surrey before. Will was, like all of Stephen’s children, quite good-looking, flaxen-haired and blue-eyed. He was also one of the wealthiest eighteen-year-olds in Christendom, for three years ago his father had secured for him a great child-heiress, Isabella de Warenne, who’d inherited the earldom of Surrey after her father died on crusade. He had a winning smile, the untested confidence of youth, and the brash cockiness so common to the sons of kings, laughing immoderately at all his own jokes and interrupting his elders much too freely for the abbot’s liking. But he still made a favorable impression, especially among those familiar with Eustace’s barbed defenses and sudden sarcasms.
“Poitiers?” Stephen was smiling quizzically at his son. He was, as the abbot and much of England well knew, the most indulgent of fathers, denying his children nothing. Not only had he bestowed the prestigious abbacy of Westminster upon his illegitimate and unqualified son Gervais-an appalling appointment in Abbot Ording’s judgment-but he’d even founded a Benedictine nunnery in Kent so that he could name his young daughter, Mary, as its prioress. It occurred to the abbot that his failings as a king had not served him well in fatherhood, either, for with his sons as with his barons, he could not bring himself to disappoint, to discipline, or to demand the respect due him. “Why Poitiers, lad?” he asked curiously, and Will grinned impishly.
“Because of the Lady Eleanor, of course! Poitiers will be attracting more pilgrims than any shrine in Christendom now that she is in the marriage market again.”
Stephen laughed, but Eustace did not. “If you’re looking for a whore,” he said impatiently, “you can find any number of sluts right here in Bury St Edmunds, Little Brother. There is no need to go all the way to Aquitaine for one.”
The silence that followed was stifling. Will flushed, but he was not as cocky as the abbot first thought, for although he glared at his elder brother, he held his tongue. The abbot was offended, as were most of those who’d overheard Eustace, for he’d just broken one of their society’s unwritten rules: Whatever men might say among themselves in private, a highborn lady’s honour was not besmirched in a public setting.
Stephen was no less dismayed than the monks. “Have you forgotten that we’re dining at God’s Table?” he asked testily. His first inclination was to insist that Eustace apologize to the abbot and his brethren, but his son was no errant schoolboy. At twenty-two, he was a man grown, a man who must accept responsibility for his own acts, his own words, no matter how ill-considered. Signaling for more wine, he regarded his eldest with baffled anger. Whatever had possessed Eustace to defame a woman who’d been his own brother-in-law’s queen? And within hearing of Bury St Edmunds’s abbot, of all men!
The abbot was watching Eustace, too, with more objective, and therefore more discerning, eyes than Stephen. He was not long in concluding that Eustace’s affront had been a deliberate provocation, well calculated to embarrass his father, the most chivalrous of men, before an audience of monks. But Eustace’s triumph did not seem to have given him much pleasure. His smile was at once defiant, brittle, and defensive, almost as if he’d been the one wronged, and somewhat to the abbot’s surprise, he found himself feeling a twinge of pity for them both. Fathers and sons. Always a Gordian knot, for certes, but how much more troubling when there was a crown caught up in its tangled coils.
No one seemed to know what to say. It was the abbey’s hospitaller who finally came to the rescue. “It is my duty and privilege, Your Grace, to meet all the needs of the guests staying within the walls of our abbey. May I ask how long you plan to remain with us?”
With an effort, Stephen forced his eyes away from his son. “We’ll be staying just one night, departing on the morrow.” Adding politely, “As much as we would enjoy your hospitality, my queen and the Lady Constance are awaiting us at Cantebrigge.”
The monks tried to conceal their relief that his visit would be so brief, with mixed success. But one of the other abbey guests, a prosperous wool merchant, was looking perplexed. After some hesitation, he said, “Begging your pardon, my liege, but I live in Cantebrigge. I arrived at the abbey last night, for I always stay with the good monks on my trips to Ipswich and-” Catching himself, he gave an abashed smile. “But that is of no earthly interest to you. What I wanted to tell you was that the queen is not in Cantebrigge. Not unless she arrived after I rode out yesterday morn…”
Now the perplexity was Stephen’s. “No, she ought to have reached Cantebrigge days ago. This makes no sense…” Frowning, he pushed his food around on his trencher, his appetite gone. After a few moments, he beckoned to a knight at the end of the table. “Everard, I want you to ride to Cantebrigge as soon as the meal is done and find out if the queen and the Countess Constance are there or not.”
Everard was one of Stephen’s household knights, in his service long enough to gauge the urgency of his king’s need. “I’ll be off as soon as I get my horse saddled,” he said, shoving away from the table. With that, Stephen gave up all pretense of unconcern. His eyes raking the hall, he found another face he could trust, and dispatched the man south to the Earl of Oxford’s castle at Hedingham, for that was Matilda’s last known stopping place. After that, the meal broke up, the monks and abbey guests scattering to their various pursuits, leaving the abbot to do his best to allay the unease of his king. But less than an hour had passed in this awkward manner before they heard shouting out in the garth.
Stephen came swiftly to his feet at sight of the man striding into the hall, for he should have been miles away by now, riding hard for Hedingham. “What in blazes are you doing back so soon, Guy? Hedingham is a good twenty miles away and if you expect to reach it by dark-”
Sir Guy now committed a serious breach of protocol; he interrupted his king. “My liege, hear me out. I encountered a messenger on the road, one of the Earl of Oxford’s men. He was on his way here, seeking you.”
A second man had followed Sir Guy into the hall. Coming forward, he knelt before Stephen. “My lord king, I am Sir Robert Fitz Henry. I serve the Earl of Oxford, am here at his bidding. A few days after her arrival at Hedingham, your lady queen took sick. She refused to let us send for you, insisting she’d not have you worried for naught. But she took a turn for the worse, and last night she asked for you and for-” He bit back the words so hastily that he seemed to have swallowed them, only making his omission all the more conspicuous.
Stephen frowned. “Who else did she want? Our daughter Mary?”
“Yes, my liege. But she also asked us to send to Holy Trinity Priory for…” Again his words trailed off, for he could see that Stephen still did not understand. He paused, then looked away so he’d not have to watch as Stephen finally realized what he was so reluctant to say. “She asked,” he said, “for her confessor.”
Matilda had always envisioned time as a river, flowing forward inexorably into the future, forcing people to keep up with the current as best they could. No more, though. Time had become tidal. Lying in the shuttered dark of an unfamiliar bedchamber, she could feel it receding toward the horizon, leaving her stranded upon the shore. As a little girl in Boulogne, she’d often walked along the beach, throwing back the starfish trapped by the ebbing tide. Now, forty years later, when it was her turn to be marooned by the retreating waves, there was no one to save her as she’d saved the starfish, but she did not mourn for herself. Dying was not so terrible, for all that people feared it so. She was in God’s hands, a feather floating on the wind, waiting to see if He would call her home.
If only Stephen understood that, if only he would not grieve so. He’d not left her bedside for days, pleading with her to hold on to hope, to fight off Death, not comprehending that Death was not always the enemy. She was so tired, so very tired. For too long, she’d been ailing, in body and spirit, struggling to keep her malaise secret from Stephen. So much bloods
hed, so many graves, so many widows and orphans, and all for what? A tarnished crown that had brought them both more pain than pleasure. But he could not relinquish it, must keep on fighting to hold on to it-for Eustace. For the son she loved, who ought never to be entrusted with a king’s sovereign powers.
The chamber was dimmed, for the candles had begun to hurt her eyes. Stephen was clutching her hand, lacing her limp fingers through his, his grip so tight that her wedding ring was pinching her flesh. Constance was weeping again, crumpled in the window seat. Matilda ached for her, the daughter by marriage who’d become as dear as her daughters by birth. Will was swiping at his face with his sleeve, her fledgling, her secret favorite. And Eustace…half hidden in the shadows, ashamed to let anyone-even his stricken family-see his tears.
At sound of a woman’s step, her lashes fluttered, but it was Cecily again. Stephen kept insisting that Mary was on her way, likely to arrive at any moment, and she’d clung to his assurances with all the forgiveness and faith of the love she’d so long ago pledged to him. But this was to be one promise he could not keep. Mary would be too late.
“Stephen…” Not even a whisper in her own ears, but he somehow heard her and leaned over, vivid blue eyes of their lost youth, awash now in tears. “Look after Constance…” But who would look after him? Surely the Almighty would, for even his worst mistakes were well intentioned. Did this too-clever son of Maude’s have such a good heart? No…God would judge what mattered most.
Stephen was kissing her hand, pressing it against his wet cheek. His beard was grizzled with silver, like an early frost. How old he seemed of a sudden. She wanted to tell him one last time that she loved him, to promise that she’d be waiting for him at Heaven’s Gate. But she could not catch her breath. She closed her eyes and when she opened them again, the room was filling with light. She could hear sobbing, but it seemed to be coming from a great distance. It grew more and more faint, until at last she could not hear it at all.
Matilda died on Saturday, May 3rd, 1152, in her forty-seventh year. Her body was taken with royal ceremony to Faversham, Kent, and buried before the High Altar in the church of St Saviour’s, the Cluniac abbey she and Stephen had founded four brief years before.
The church was very quiet. Cupping his candle, the young monk slipped around the roodscreen, into the choir. The white marble of the queen’s sepulchre glimmered in the shadows. As he drew near, he saw that someone had laid a yellow primrose upon the tomb. He was not surprised by the floral offering, for all at St Saviour’s were in mourning for their queen. She’d spent as much time as she could spare at the abbey, finding within its cloistered walls the peace that was so elusive in the rest of her husband’s realm. She’d been extremely generous with the monks, and they in turn had given her their wholehearted devotion. Brother Leonard knew that he was not the only one of his brethren who’d loved the queen.
The funeral had been over for hours, but there had been too much pain in this church for it to have faded away so soon. It seemed to echo in the stillness, the way the smell of smoke lingered even after a fire had been doused. Brother Leonard knew he was being fanciful, but he could not help himself. The faces of the queen’s loved ones still haunted him, for never had he seen a family so desolated, so overwhelmed by their loss.
The king had done all that was expected of him, accepting condolences, keeping watch over his daughter-in-law and stunned daughter, but his eyes were glazed, his shoulders bowed. He’d buried his heart with his wife, and all who looked upon him knew it. The queen’s younger son had wept openly throughout the service, as had his Warenne child-wife and most of the mourners. The Lady Constance had almost fainted as they first entered the church, and although she’d insisted upon remaining, there were times when Stephen’s encircling arm seemed all that was keeping her on her feet.
Brother Leonard gently fingered the stem of the primrose, wishing he’d thought to bring flowers, too. He’d remedy that on the morrow. The primrose was freshly plucked, for it had not yet begun to wilt. Despite his best intentions, he found himself thinking of another flower, the Lady Mary. Never had he seen a prioress who looked remotely like Mary. She was just shy of sixteen, and under other circumstances, the dramatic Benedictine black of her habit would have set off her fairness to perfection. But on the day of her mother’s funeral, she was a lost waif, berating herself to anyone who’d listen for not getting to Hedingham Castle in time to bid her mother farewell. It shamed Brother Leonard that he’d been most affected by Mary’s grieving, for he feared that his sympathy was suspect, unduly influenced by her youth and beauty.
The queen had often teased him that his conscience was too tender. Remembering that now, his eyes blurred with sudden tears. What would she say if she’d known he’d cast admiring glances at her nun daughter? Most likely she’d have understood, for he’d never known anyone as forgiving…as good. How could she and the king have ever bred a son like the Count of Boulogne?
And yet…and yet he’d found himself pitying Eustace, too, at the funeral. Standing apart from the others, keeping his face averted so none could notice his swollen, red-rimmed eyes, he’d looked so reclusive in his grief, so utterly alone that Brother Leonard could not help hurting for him. He was all too familiar with the queen’s temperamental son, for twice Eustace had come to Faversham at his mother’s behest, but never before had he noticed how solitary Eustace seemed. He could recognize loneliness easier than most. For much of his life, he’d been an outsider, never having a sense of belonging until fate and the queen had brought him to Faversham. At first it seemed foolish, indeed, to compare himself-an outcast orphan of low birth-with the King of England’s son and heir, and Eustace had soon forfeited his sympathy by turning upon his weeping wife, rebuking her for making a spectacle of her grief. But when he thought about the funeral later, it was Eustace’s isolation that the monk would remember, his inability to end his self-imposed exile even on the day of his mother’s funeral.
Letting the flower drop back onto the tomb, Brother Leonard said softly, “Ah, my lady, how will we ever learn to abide your loss?” Crossing to the High Altar, he knelt and began to pray for Matilda’s soul, although he was confident that if ever there was one judged worthy of passing straight through Purgatory into Heaven, it would be the queen. He was still on his knees when he heard the voices in the nave.
“Do you wish me to go with you, my lord?”
“No, I’d have you await me out here.”
Brother Leonard scrambled to his feet, for he’d recognized the second voice, a low guttural growl that still evoked distinctive echoes of his native Flanders. He heard the tapping now of a cane against the tiles, and was tempted to duck out before William de Ypres became aware of his presence. But he hesitated too long. The cane halted its sweep, and the Fleming said challengingly, “Who is there?”
“It is me, my lord…one of the monks.” Although Ypres had always treated him with a gruff, offhand courtesy, Brother Leonard was never fully at ease in his company. The Fleming had been the queen’s closest ally; between them, they’d managed to keep Stephen and the Archbishop of Canterbury from a final and irrevocable split, patching up one peace after another as the need arose. But Brother Leonard was not ignorant of Ypres’s lurid past. Monks liked to gossip, too, and he’d heard all the stories, knew that until Ypres had begun to lose his sight, he’d been one of the king’s most brilliant and brutal mercenary captains. Reason told him that the man was no longer dangerous, for he was in his sixties, an age as vast as Methuselah’s to the twenty-year-old monk, and he was utterly blind in one eye, going blind in the other. But whenever he gazed into those oddly opaque eyes, Brother Leonard felt as if he were looking at an aged wolf, fangs worn down, but by no means harmless.
“Brother…Leonard, is it not?”
“Yes, my lord, it is.” Surprised and rather flattered that the Fleming remembered him so readily, he gestured toward the queen’s tomb. “I was saying a prayer for my lady. I…I owed her so much. I was
hired to help out in the infirmary, and when the queen learned of my desire to serve God, she persuaded Abbot Clarembald to accept me as a novice, even though I was of humble birth and without two coins to rub together. And when it was time for me to take my vows, she came down from London to bear witness. She did all that for me,” he said wonderingly, “and got nothing in return. But as long as I have breath, she’ll have my prayers.”
“You’re wrong, lad. It gave her great pleasure that she’d been able to guide you ‘onto the road to Heaven,’ as she liked to say.” Ypres’s smile was both wry and weary. “She talked of you often, you and all her other lost lambs.”
Without warning, tears flooded the young monk’s eyes. “I know it is not for a poor wretch like me to question the Ways of Almighty God, but…but why did He have to take her now, when we still needed her so much?”
The Fleming reached out, resting the palm of his hand against the cold, unyielding marble of Matilda’s tomb. “If you truly loved her, lad,” he said, “be grateful that He did take her now.”
51
Poitiers, Poitou
May 1152
Petronilla found Eleanor up on the battlements of the palace keep. The sky was streaking and the Rivers Clain and Boivre curved around the city like flowing ribbons of gold, but the light had yet to fade. Following Eleanor’s gaze toward the north, Petronilla saw what had drawn her eyes: a small band of fast-riding horsemen, leaving a trail of dust in their wake as they approached the Pont de Rochereuil. “Eleanor…you think that is Harry?”
Eleanor nodded. “He said he’d be arriving on Whitsunday Eve, late in the day, between Vespers and Compline.”
“Yes, but surely he’d have a more impressive escort than that?”
“Jesu forfend,” Eleanor said emphatically. “The last thing we want is to attract attention ere we’re safely wed. He said he’d bring just enough men to fend off robbers, traveling as inconspicuously as possible.” She kept her eyes intently upon those distant riders, who were now passing the abbey of St Jean de Montierneuf. “Although I doubt that he’d have brought a large retinue in any event. He does not seem to care much for pomp and ceremony.”
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