The Fatal Crown(6)
The Countess, catching the brief exchange, turned on her youngest son with the swiftness of a cat pouncing upon a mouse. “Aha! Why was Stephen late, Henry? What has he been up to?”
Two years younger than his brother, Henry had light brown hair and pale green eyes that carefully avoided his mother’s relentless gaze. “Ah, nothing, Madam,” he murmured.
Adela, about to attack a boiled carp covered in a thick white sauce, paused to give both boys a speculative look. “I can always tell when you are protecting him, Henry. What has the rascal done now?”
Henry swallowed, a bright flush appearing on his cheeks. “I—that is to say—what has he done?” He stammered, giving his brother a guilty look.
“You heard me. Out with it, my son. No harm will come to you if you speak the truth.”
Henry gave a sigh of capitulation. “Stephen was in the stables—playing with the steward’s daughter. I saw them. Stephen was—” He glanced at his elder sister, Cicily, who was following his words with breathless interest.
“Traitor!” Stephen’s eyes blazed with green fire. “You promised!”
Adela pushed her trencher of bread aside. “What was he doing? Speak up.”
“Her skirts were up over her head, his hose was down, and he was—you know—” Henry colored even more deeply. “Touching her here.” He touched his chest with a look of disgust. “And down there.” He pointed vaguely in the direction of his feet, then turned toward his brother with an air of righteous innocence. “I’m sorry, Stephen, but I cannot lie for you all the time.”
His face scarlet, Stephen rose from the table and leapt at his brother, knocking him from the bench into the rushes, disturbing two hounds quarreling over the fish. Cicily began to shriek.
“Telltale!” Stephen began to pummel his brother with clenched fists. “Rotten little piece of horse dung.”
“Stephen, I’ve warned you over and over to stay away from the steward’s daughter!” Adela was on her feet now, gray eyes snapping in a face white with anger. “Her father has promised the wench to a knight and if you have tampered with her maidenhead it will be the worse for you! Twelve years of age and lecherous as a stag in rut! Why I haven’t cut your stones and member off before now—By God’s splendor, Theo, do something!”
Henry, unperturbed despite a bloody nose, was finally extricated from a tangle of snapping dogs and Stephen’s blows by his eldest brother, the stolid and dutiful Theobald, newly knighted Count of Blois. Adela, whose temper was on a short rein at the best of times, walked around the table to where Stephen stood brushing wisps of dried grass from his green tunic. She began to cuff him about the head and ears.
“Lustful young hothead,” she shouted. “Troublemaker. What is to be done with you? Disobedient, picking quarrels! Is that any way for a grandson of the Conqueror to behave?”
“Then send me away,” Stephen shouted back, trying to duck her blows. “You don’t want me at Blois. You’ve always hated me!”
Adela curled her fingers into a fist and hit him with all her strength. Stephen reeled, putting a hand to the livid red welt that marred the high arch of his cheekbone.
“May God strike you dumb for saying such a monstrous thing about your own mother!” Her face purple with rage, Adela drew back her arm for another blow.
“It’s true, you know it’s true!” Tears of anger and frustration welled up in Stephen’s eyes. “Just because I look like my father. Is that my fault?”
The moment the words were out, Stephen was aghast at his folly. What madness had prompted him to remind his mother of her late husband? During the crusade, Count Stephen of Blois, in the midst of a battle with the Turks in the Holy Land, had deserted his men and fled back to his country. Forced by his indomitable countess to return, he had eventually died a respectable death, but it was the earlier cowardice everyone remembered. His name was never mentioned in Adela’s presence. Now there was absolute silence in the great hall as the servants, the steward, members of the castle mesnie, the guests, and Stephen’s brothers and sister stared at him in horror.
“How dare you remind me of that spineless coward!” Adela screamed, looking wildly about the room. “Someone get me the horsewhip from the stables. At once!”
Half the servants and the steward ran to do her bidding, almost falling over themselves in their haste to get out of the hall.
The Countess glowered at Stephen, her bosom heaving, her eyes reflecting the familiar look of grim hostility that he had come to realize was probably directed at the memory of his weak father, for Stephen closely resembled the Count and bore his name. But whatever its cause, he alone of all her children carried the brunt of his mother’s savage antagonism.