The Fatal Crown(224)
“I don’t intend to cross the river,” Maud said, knowing the time had come to swear the knights to secrecy, trusting them not to betray her destination.
The two knights exchanged startled glances. “But the King holds the right bank and Duke Henry the left bank. In order to get to the left side we must cross the river.”
“We remain on the right bank,” she said, explaining what she intended to do and making the knights swear never to reveal it.
Ignoring their dumbfounded expressions, Maud turned her palfrey and started down the right bank of the river toward Stephen’s camp.
Stephen was dozing inside his pavilion when he became aware of raised voices outside. He had returned from noon Mass and been seized with an attack of queasiness accompanied by the usual feeling of weakness. Such attacks were becoming more frequent of late.
“In God’s name, Walter,” he finally called to his squire, “what is all that noise about?”
The squire opened the tent flap that served as a door. “Sorry to disturb you, Sire, but there is a woman here who insists on seeing you. We have been trying to escort her out of the camp but she refuses to go.”
Stephen sat up with a yawn, relieved that the discomfort had begun to ease off. “Woman? What woman? A camp follower?”
“Oh no, Sire, a very respectable lady, but she won’t give her name.”
“Is she alone?”
“Yes, Sire.”
Intrigued, Stephen rose to his feet. “Show her in, show her in. She sounds harmless enough.” He winked at Walter. “After all, if a lady is that eager to see me, how can I disappoint her?”
The squire grinned and left. Stephen looked at the jumble of hauberks, clothes, and weapons scattered across the tent, wondering if the place was fit to receive a female visitor. He set two stools near the charcoal brazier and, finding two wooden cups on the floor, put them on a small oak chest beside a flagon of wine.
Presentable enough, he decided with another yawn, trying to fight off the enervating weakness that was still with him. As he had told his physicians, except for the occasional pain, he did not feel ill so much as apathetic. The forced inactivity of the last two months depressed him; the constant pressure of his brother and barons urging him to sign Bishop Henry’s damned treaty infuriated him. In fact, there was nothing wrong with him, he decided, that would not immediately be cured by a resounding battle with Henry of Anjou’s forces.
He hoped the meeting with this unknown woman would take his mind off the deadlock with his magnates and the ever-present, gnawing worry about Eustace.
After hearing the details of the treaty that would disinherit him, his son had flown into a violent rage despite Stephen’s assurances that he would never sign such a document. He had then stormed out of the camp cursing both his father and his uncle of Winchester, laid waste the estates that supported Henry of Anjou, then senselessly attacked the monastery holdings of Bury St. Edmunds. The alarmed monks had appealed to Stephen for aid, and yesterday he had sent a troop of soldiers to bring back Eustace.
Since then he had received no word. Stephen had worn his knees raw in daily prayer, beseeching Our Lord for a miracle to occur that would transform his evil-tempered son into a man of wisdom and calm disposition. With a sigh he walked toward the door of the pavilion.
As Maud approached the azure pavilion she remembered so well from the sieges at Arundel and Oxford, she was seized by panic. Certain she could not now go through with her plan, she turned to the squire and told him she had changed her mind.
The tent door opened and Stephen, his green eyes disbelieving in a face suddenly drained of color, stood transfixed in the entrance. Maud’s breath caught in her throat, her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth, and her heart pounded so heavily she thought it would burst. For what seemed like a small eternity they stared at each other. Stephen recovered first.
“This woman is known to me,” he said in a hoarse voice. Then, stepping forward, he grasped Maud firmly by the arm, led her into the tent, and shut the door behind them.
Inside, Stephen indicated one of the stools, then poured wine into two cups, spilling almost half the contents of the flagon. Maud threw back the hood of her cloak, and sat down, her trembling fingers tightly laced together. During the long hours she had spent agonizing over what she would say, she had not imagined that the impact of seeing him would be so overwhelming. It was virtually impossible to take her eyes off him. Despite the fact that he was over fifty years of age, the tall lean body clad in a rumpled blue tunic appeared unchanged. Although the golden-brown hair and beard were heavily speckled with silver, this only lent an air of majesty to his face, a face furrowed by lines of strain but still arresting, still comely. She felt the familiar surge of blood race through her veins, as her body, roused from a long sleep, began to stir with new life.