The Fatal Crown(222)

Maud could not imagine her life without Brian FitzCount. Strong and steadfast, duty had been Brian’s watchword, as it had been Robert’s. But never Stephen’s. Nor hers, she realized in stunned surprise. Both ambitious, she and Stephen had attempted to take what they wanted, never really counting the cost. With a start of recognition she saw that they were more alike than she had ever dreamed.

After Vespers, Maud and Brian went into supper at the great hall. “Can’t I persuade you to stay with me for a while?” she asked him.

He shook his head. “You no longer need me, Maud. You have found your own voice at last.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“It’s hardly a secret that Normandy fares very well these days. Word has trickled back to England that the duchy is in such capable hands, even Louis of France will think twice before crossing the Normandy borders. From the moment I landed at Barfleur yesterday, all the way to Rouen, wherever I stopped I heard your praises sung: The Regent dispenses fair justice, the Regent is wise and strong, and cannot be fooled. She is her father all over again—but with a compassionate heart.”

“Brian,” she whispered, as a surge of joy swept through her, “do they really say that? Truly?”

“And more besides.” He gave her an affectionate smile. “If only you had behaved in the past as you do now, this day would you wear England’s crown.”

Cautiously, Maud drew aside the curtain of memory, long closed, to face the bitter anguish of those tumultuous seven months when the crown had been within her grasp. What demons had tormented her then, what devils had driven her to behave in so arrogant, ill-tempered, rash, and vengeful a fashion? It seemed incomprehensible now.

“I know,” she agreed in a calm voice. “But all that was a long time ago. My time has come and gone and I have accepted this. Now it is Henry’s turn.” She looked anxiously at Brian as a new thought struck her. “But I fear his stubborn refusal to sign this peace treaty may turn men against him as they turned against me. He must not make the same mistakes.”

“My thoughts exactly. That is why I came.” “But how can I stop him?”

“God will show you the way.”

Maud made no reply. People were apt to offer that, she thought sourly, when they could think of nothing better to say.

The next morning Brian left Rouen to join a party from Brittany that was traveling to Jerusalem. He took her in his arms before mounting his horse, and gave her a warm hug.

“We’ve come a long way together and I’ll miss you, Maud,” he said, his eyes misting as he released her.

“And I you, dear friend,” she said, clinging to his tall frame, unwilling to let him go out of her life. “Do you have no last word of advice before you go? No direction that I can follow?”

Brian mounted his horse. “It’s my opinion that Henry will not be convinced to alter his course of action. Not even by you.” He paused as he wheeled his horse around. “You would do better to appeal to Stephen,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

“Stephen?” she asked in astonishment. “How would I appeal to Stephen?”

He smiled, a ghost of a twinkle in his eyes. “It will come to you, I doubt not. Goodbye, dearest Maud.”

When he had ridden out of the courtyard, Maud climbed up to the battlements to watch him go, feeling she had lost her last close friend. He dwindled to a tiny speck on the horizon, but still she did not move, her hands grasping the stone embrasure. Why did Brian think she could persuade Stephen to sign the treaty?

Maud began to pace the battlements, then, suddenly, she stopped short. A wave of heat washed through her body, her heart began to pound, and she felt giddy. She let the idea take hold of her, looking at it, considering all the implications. Such a drastic step involved great risk, but it was the only solution that offered itself, and she must act without delay if she were to act at all.

Normandy could safely be left in Eleanor’s hands for the short time she would be gone. As soon as possible she would leave for England.





Chapter Thirty


Wallingford, 1153


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.