Henry’s eyes smoldered. Was the Bishop of Winchester foolish enough to imagine that the volatile Eustace would honor any treaty that cut him out of the succession? His great-grandfather, the mighty William, had not relied on treaties but conquest. His grandfather, Henry, had done away with his enemies: no agreements to be broken, no loose ends left dangling that might rise up in the future and threaten all that had been won. Suddenly his eyes narrowed.
Across the river Stephen appeared out of the mist, accompanied by his brother and William of Ypres. Imposing in a purple mantle, Stephen walked along the riverbank, deep in conversation with the Bishop of Winchester. The Thames narrowed at this juncture and barely sixty yards separated Henry from the King. On impulse he bent to pick up a stone that lay in the mud.
“Is it too wet for you to fight, Sire?” he called out, slicing the stone through the air. As he had intended, the small rock landed well short of Stephen.
Stephen turned, drawing his sword with such speed Henry blinked in surprise. Incredibly fast for a man his age, Henry thought, impressed despite himself. Here was a worthy opponent indeed. Several guards ran to Stephen’s side; one raised his spear and took aim. Henry held his ground. For a wild moment he hoped the guard would actually throw the spear; at least that would be an excuse to attack Stephen’s forces. His pulse quickened at the thought of plunging into action. But the King restrained the guard’s raised arm as he peered through the veil of rain trying to see from where the voice and stone had come. Finally he spotted Henry across the bank and after a moment’s hesitation sheathed his sword.
“It’s never too wet for me to fight,” he called back. “Left to myself I would have done battle long since, and this day would you be resting in my dungeons. But my barons will have peace at any cost.”
“Then let us meet in single combat and decide the issue once and for all,” Henry shouted.
Stephen pushed back the hood of his cloak. Drops of rain fell onto his beard. “Do you tire of life so soon? I do not challenge untried youths to single combat.”
Henry was filled with rage as he heard the mocking laughter of the Flemish captain. He was about to make a hot retort when the Earl of Leicester grabbed him firmly by the arm and steered him down the bank.
“He’s baiting you, my lord, come away. Please be more circumspect in future—that guard might have thrown his spear.”
“Would that he had. We might have seen some fighting then,” Henry snarled. “My destiny is not to die on a muddy riverbank, I assure you.”
He stomped into his tent. By God’s splendor, how ironic that the only person who felt as he did, who wanted the matter settled by combat rather than treaty, was his greatest enemy.
Maud landed at Wareham in mid-October accompanied by two knights from Rouen. A party of three was not likely to call attention to itself, and these were men she knew she could trust. After resting the night in an inn, she spent the following day buying three mounts for herself and her companions. To further conceal her identity she intended to ride to Wallingford disguised as a merchant’s wife from Normandy traveling to London. Until the conflict between Henry and Stephen was resolved, as far as she was concerned there was still a civil war going on. Should she be stopped she did not want Stephen’s forces to discover who she was or where her destination lay.
The next morning, clad in sober gray, Maud began the two day journey to Wallingford. The closer she came to her destination, the more fearful she became of risks that might present themselves. A member of Stephen’s forces might find her face familiar and decide to hold her for ransom. She would be a rich prize for anyone. Then there was always the possibility of someone from the stronghold of Wallingford itself recognizing her and informing Henry, who, furious at what he would consider her meddling, was certain to put a stop to her plans. At all costs her son must not find out she was in England. Not now, not ever, if she could prevent it.
Doubts assailed her, and by the following day she was tempted to turn back to the coast. Then, across the wooded downs, she caught a glimpse of the gray walls of Reading Abbey where her father lay buried. The thought of King Henry gave her the strength to go on and accomplish her mission.
It was mid-afternoon when the road suddenly turned and Maud faced a river, swollen from the rains, spanned by a narrow wooden bridge. In the distance she could see the misty towers of Wallingford. A light drizzle began to fall.
“Let us cross the river before the rain becomes heavier, my lady,” one of the knights said with an anxious look at the turbulent water. “If the rains continue the water could sweep away the bridge.”