The Fatal Crown(16)

“She cannot understand you, Pierre,” said the other. “I imagine she only speaks German.”

“Well, she had better learn our language again if she intends to stay,” retorted the first groom.

They passed out of earshot. Maud wanted to explain she still spoke their language as well as ever but did not have the heart to call them back. The realization that she was little better than a captive in her father’s domains was a heavy weight pressing against her chest.

“Lady?” Aldyth’s round face, soft and creased as a dried apple, poked through the door of the tent. “I was about to wake you. Come, the bath is poured. You must be ready when the King sends for you.” She withdrew her head.

Maud could not bring herself to go inside the pavilion but continued to loiter outside, wanting to extend these treasured moments of freedom for as long as possible. The reeds that grew beside the river trembled, as if someone moved behind them. She began to walk toward the riverbank.

Stephen of Blois, Count of Mortain, suddenly opened his eyes, awakened by an indefinable sense of danger. He threw off the gray blanket of unwashed wool, then, like a great golden cat, slowly uncoiled his supple limbs and silently rose to his feet. Now, crouched naked on his pallet, he looked carefully around the tent he shared with his two closest friends, Earl Robert of Gloucester, the King’s bastard son, and Brian FitzCount, Lord of Wallingford, one of his uncle’s trusted advisers.

He could see nothing out of the ordinary in the familiar shambles of crumpled tunics, swords, shields, ivory dice, wooden cups, and an empty henap of wine scattered over the floor. Wrinkling his nose, for the pavilion smelled like a vintner’s stall, Stephen stretched his lean body, then ran his fingers through a tangle of honey-brown hair.

Still the sense of danger persisted. It must be coming from outside. Careful not to disturb his sleeping companions, Stephen pulled on a white linen shirt that fell to mid-thigh, unsheathed a knife from the embossed silver scabbard attached to his leather belt lying on the floor, and tiptoed out of the pavilion.

Outside it was still early; over the brow of the hill the King’s camp was just beginning to stir. A heavy dew had fallen overnight, drenching the meadow grasses and gnarled apple trees heavy with fruit. Stephen looked to his left but saw only the familiar red-and-gold banners of the King’s tent and the outline of village huts and church spire beyond. On his right, wreaths of smoke from the cooking fires rose lazily in the air; a light breeze carried the spicy odor of game roasting over an applewood fire.

There was certainly nothing unusual in this familiar scene, yet the feeling of alarm persisted. Over the years Stephen had learned to trust his instincts, as finely honed, he prided himself, as any forest creature’s. From across the river he heard the sound of hammering, and immediately walked through the meadow grasses down to the riverbank. Putting down his knife while he removed his shirt, he waded into the river which swirled in brown circles around the golden pelt of his chest. The shock of the cold water against his skin was invigorating. On the opposite bank he parted the clusters of pale green reeds and climbed soundlessly onto the moist earth. Now, surely, the source of the danger, if such existed, would be revealed.

Through the reeds Stephen could see servitors unloading carts and erecting pavilions. Several grooms were leading pack horses and mules down the riverbank to drink.

The sense of danger abruptly vanished as a woman dressed all in black came into view. Although he could not see her features clearly, Stephen was aware of a graceful neck supporting a flushed ivory face tilted slightly backward, and a luxuriant fall of russet hair that cascaded down her back. She slipped off her black cloak to reveal an elegant carriage, slender body, and swelling bosom.

When she began to walk toward the river, something about the woman’s face and the color of her hair seemed vaguely familiar, although he could not place her. Who could she be? he wondered, before suddenly connecting the raised pavilion, the carts, and why he was here. This could only be his cousin Maud, widow of the Imperial Emperor. She had grown into a heart-stopping beauty, more than fulfilling the early promise of the lovely teary-eyed maiden he had seen, and never totally forgotten, the day he arrived at Windsor fourteen years ago.

The sudden sound of hooves pounding across the stone bridge that spanned the river made Stephen sink to his knees in the reeds. A party of nobles trotted past; among them Stephen recognized two of his companions, the de Beaumont twins, riding from Muelan into the tiny village of St. Clair to meet the King’s daughter.

The church bells rang for Prime and Stephen turned back to feast his eyes upon Maud once more. Suddenly a voice in his ear startled him.