Roger nodded glumly. “I remember, Sire, but that was a long time ago. Her lack of knowledge of England will tell against her should she be called upon to assume the throne at short notice.”
“I have many more years of life ahead of me,” Henry said with a dark look at the Bishop. “Time to teach Maud all she needs to know. And she will be surrounded by able advisors, of course.” He strode restlessly to the table and began drumming his fingers against the wood.
“There will be problems, naturally,” he continued. “She is impetuous, headstrong. The Emperor spoiled her and everything has come a little too easily for her, but she will have her mettle tested soon enough, by God’s splendor. I shall mold her myself. She will rule in my image.”
Roger gave a discreet cough. “As I have already warned you, Sire, there will be difficulties with Stephen and his supporters. Not to mention the other magnates.”
Henry began to pace again. “Yes, yes, I know. You remind me often enough. Well, circumstances change; Stephen must adapt like everyone else. I’ve great affection for my nephew, and have always treated him like my own son. He has never been stinted of wealth, honors, titles. There is no cause for complaint from that quarter.” He paused. “When we mentioned Stephen as a possible candidate for the throne, the Emperor was not yet dead, remember. I had no idea Maud would be available. No promises were made, mind. I’ve never even discussed the issue with him.”
“True, but he expects to be the heir should Queen Adelicia not bear you a son. Everyone assumes he will be; everyone wants him to be. Perhaps a word in his ear would not come amiss. To soften the blow.”
Henry gave the Bishop a sharp look. “Not one word, do you understand? Not one word. I want no one stirring up trouble before the fact. Stephen will hear the news when everyone else does. When the time is ripe. Meanwhile, God may still answer our prayers: The Queen may still conceive a son.” He lifted his wine cup. “Now, are you through playing devil’s advocate?”
The Bishop reluctantly nodded.
“I know you’re against this, Roger, but you will support me despite your misgivings?” His hooded eyes watched the Bishop’s face over the rim of his wooden cup.
“As always, Sire,” the Bishop responded with an oily smile that showed his rotting teeth. “But this will be such a violent break with custom. There is simply no precedent for leaving the kingdom to a woman. Even in Saxon times no one would have dared—”
“Enough!” Henry interrupted, banging his cup on the table. “The matter is settled. The magnates will bend to my will.” He smiled and pointed a confident finger at Roger. “In truth, Maud will make an admirable queen, eh? Admit it. When have I ever been wrong?”
Chapter Nine
STEPHEN’S BROTHER HENRY, ABBOT of Glastonbury, had witnessed the encounter between the King and his daughter with intense interest. When the King arranged to see his daughter alone, followed immediately by a visit from the Bishop of Salisbury, he suspected something was afoot. After Vespers, an impromptu visit to Bishop Roger was in order. The Bishop would tell him about the second meeting, and also allay his growing concern about his brother’s future as heir apparent, a concern he had not voiced to Stephen. A light wind ruffled the pale brown hair around his tonsure and flattened his black habit against his thin shanks.
As the Abbot bowed his head to enter the cramped interior of the church, the stench of unwashed bodies rose to meet him. He wrinkled his arched nose in distaste. Looking about him with cool green eyes, the Abbot realized that almost no one from the King’s camp had attended the service. Not surprising, he thought, in such an ugly, unassuming house of worship. A church should be glorified with beautiful things in tasteful surroundings, not like this filthy place. Impatiently, his eyes sought out the altar. There was no water clock, not even an hourglass. He thought longingly of his own comfortable, well-appointed church in Glastonbury.
Of course Glastonbury was well enough for the moment, he reflected, letting his mind wander. It would serve as a stepping-stone to greater heights, such as the wealthy and powerful See of Winchester, recently fallen vacant. He was positive he could persuade his uncle that, despite his youth, he was the right candidate. Once the King let it be known that he favored his nephew, the church would appoint him. It might even be possible to retain his See of Glastonbury as well.
Yes, Bishop of Winchester was the next rung on the ladder, Henry thought. But that was not the summit of his ambition. Far from it. An expectant smile curved his thin lips. When the King died, if all went as expected, then his brother Stephen would succeed to the throne. Not long after that, the present Archbishop of Canterbury, a frail old man, would almost certainly be called to his just reward. Henry had Stephen’s firm promise to then make him Archbishop. And after that? Archbishop of Canterbury was the highest honor the English church could offer, the apex of his hopes. Or was it? Half dozing, the Abbot suddenly saw a picture of himself in a red cardinal’s hat walking up the stone steps of St. Peter’s in Rome to a thundering peal of heavenly bells.