The Fatal Crown (5 page)

Her former nurse, now chief woman attendant, Aldyth, often told her that true beauty came from a gentle demeanor, a modest nature, obedience, and attention to matters of religion. Anything else was vanity. As Maud possessed none of these sterling qualities, Aldyth often reminded her, how could she hope to become beautiful? But for the past two years, Maud had become aware that men’s eyes often followed her: at the Imperial court, while she rode in an open litter, even attending holy services. The Emperor did not appear to notice, being far more interested in her varied accomplishments, most of which he had taught her himself.

From the moment Maud arrived in Germany he had taken charge of her education. She had been fearful that after her marriage at thirteen she would be relegated to the company of her women and doomed to a tedious life of weaving tapestries, managing servants, and childbearing. But, to her great relief, life continued as before.

The street suddenly opened onto a large square and the litter was forced to stop while a train of pack mules ambled by. It was market day and in the cobbled square peasants had set up their stalls of fruits, vegetables, nuts, and cheese.

While Maud waited for the mules to pass, she found herself remembering the first time the Emperor had become a husband instead of a beloved mentor. Even before the wedding ceremony at thirteen, she had been well prepared by Aldyth for what was to happen, but the Emperor had not attempted to consummate the marriage until she was sixteen. It had happened one winter night in Speyer. He was dressed in the heavy woolen nightshirt he wore winter and summer, with its carefully placed hole through which his member had attempted to enter her while he avoided any other contact with her flesh. He had extinguished all the candles so that she had not been able to catch even a glimpse of him. There had been a brief spasm of pain and then it was over so swiftly Maud was not entirely sure what had occurred.

From then on he exercised his conjugal rights infrequently. Sometimes Maud wondered if his habits were rather strange, unlike other men, according to the gossip she had picked up from her women, but had finally decided that his role as a religious leader was bound to make him different.

The mule train passed and the litter continued across the square and down another street, so narrow and twisted that a group of black-robed priests and monks had to press themselves against the wall so that the horses could squeeze by.

Maud thought herself quite fortunate to be spared her husband’s fumbling nocturnal embraces since he was obviously fond of her, and continued to interest himself in her education. Wherever the Imperial court had traveled, from the towering snowcapped peaks of Bavaria, to the misty castles of the Rhineland, the dark green pines of the Black Forest, the cobbled streets and soaring spires of Paris, or the tranquil waterways of Venice, she had been instructed in those subjects that the Emperor felt a consort should know.

Now Maud had a working knowledge of law, history, mathematics, and philosophy. In addition to Norman French, she could speak Latin, German, and even a little Italian. As the Emperor was the head of Christendom, along with the Pope, with whom he was often in armed conflict, she had also been exposed to a comprehensive study of church affairs, as well as her husband’s cynical attitude toward the Holy See.

On her right the litter now passed a crumbling stone church and close beside it the ruins of an ancient marble temple. Amid the fallen scrolled arches stood the gleaming white statue of a young man. One of his arms was missing, the other held a broken urn; his sightless eyes seemed to bore right through her. Maud looked quickly away; she had never seen a man unclothed, and the sight of the naked youth made her uncomfortable.

However, her fleeting glimpse of the statue had been sufficient to inform her that it was probably early Roman in origin. Statuary was one of many unlikely subjects she had learned during her travels with the Emperor. Despite its formal etiquette and stiff atmosphere, the Imperial court was often visited by unusual travelers. There were crusading knights returning after years in the Holy Land, Normans from Sicily, wandering scholars from Paris, troubadours from Provence, and visiting Semites and Moslems, bringing with them translations of classic works from ancient Greece and Rome.

Maud found her encounters with these people of great interest and excitement, affording her a glimpse into unknown worlds. A jongleur had taught her to play a few simple chords on the viol; a physician from Joppa had taught her some rudimentary Arabic; and she was laboriously reading her way through a translation of a Greek tale of a wanderer called Ulysses.

In the distance Maud caught a glimpse of the lichened stone tiers of the Colosseum, and beyond, the soft blue hills of Tuscany. She knew she was most fortunate to be leading such an unusual life, and she never ceased to be grateful to the Emperor.

Of course, there were a few pinpricks. While she was generally respected and liked, Maud was also aware that the Imperial court had more than its share of intrigue and gossip. Not everyone approved of her accomplishments or her education. Behind her back there were those who whispered that such activities were not seemly for a woman, that the elderly Emperor pampered his young Norman bride, whose time would be better spent learning more wifely skills, such as producing sons. A woman’s main task in life was raising children, and why were none forthcoming, buzzed malicious tongues.

Maud paid them scant attention. Let people gossip to their heart’s content, she thought, so long as the Emperor approved of her.

The litter slowed to a halt in a broad courtyard with a large fig tree in the center surrounded by a wealth of flowers, pale yellow, soft white, and dusky rose. Maud leapt out, dashed past a pink-veined marble fountain spouting water, up crumbling white steps flanked by two stone lions, and into the cool entrance hall with its blue mosaic tile floors.

“Where is His Imperial Highness?” she called to a servitor in white livery.

“In his reception chamber, but he is occupied, Your Grace—”

Maud did not wait to hear the rest but raced down the passage to the reception chamber.

“You will be so proud of me,” she cried as she pushed open the door and burst into the dark stone chamber.

She stopped in dismay. She had expected him to be alone, but instead saw that two strangers with somber faces attended him. The Emperor, dressed in gold-encrusted robes of state and covered with a cloak lined in white ermine, was seated in a wooden armchair, his legs propped up on a cushioned stool. Two glowing braziers sat on either side of him, making the chamber stifling. Hazy sunlight, filtered through rose-colored leaded windows, illuminated his long face, creased as old parchment today, and softened the iron-gray strands of his hair and beard. When he was ill he always looked older than his forty-seven years. He exchanged a brief glance with the two strangers, then turned his heavy-lidded eyes toward her.

“In heaven’s name, how many times have I told you not to rush into a room like a high wind?” The Emperor put a hand to his heart, then addressed the two visitors who were staring at her. “You must forgive my wife’s excessive high spirits. I fear I spoil her, thus her manners often leave something to be desired.” He signaled a servant. “Shut the door, I feel a draft.”

Maud flushed. “
Mea culpa
, I will try to remember in future.” Contrite, she curtsied to the visitors. “Forgive my intrusion.”

As she quickly turned to leave, a smile played at the corners of the Emperor’s thin lips. “After such an impetuous entrance, I think you had better remain. Come here, Liebling.” He lifted his feet from the stool with a grimace, and patted the cushion. “Sit here by me.” When she was seated he chucked her under the chin. “I hear you did very well today, very well indeed.”

Maud could not repress jumping to her feet with a little bounce of excitement. “How did you hear? Who told you? What did they say?”

“Benedicte! Such a lot of questions. Can you not be still? Sit down. It makes me dizzy to look at you,” grumbled the Emperor, his expression growing sober. “What will our visitors think?”

With a guilty glance at the two strangers, Maud sank back onto the stool. She was bursting with curiosity about these men with their long faces, but knew it would be impolite to ask who they were. She had already committed sufficient discourtesies.

One, a young man with long curling brown hair, was dressed all in black, from his leather boots to his cloak. His brown eyes, which had widened in surprise when she entered the chamber, returned again and again to her face, the slim white column of her neck, her slender waist, and the abundant curve of her breasts thrusting against her tunic.

Under his scrutiny, Maud felt awkward and self-conscious. Sweet Marie, why did he look at her like that! She turned her attention to the other visitor, a Benedictine abbot of middle years, clad in the black habit of his order, with a silver pectoral cross upon his breast.

“We will discuss your affairs later,” said the Emperor, in a serious voice. “There are more pressing matters at hand. Let me introduce our visitors, Abbot Peter from the See of London, and Count Auberi of Evreux in Normandy. They have been sent by your father to tell us tragic news: Your twin brother, Prince William, was drowned in the channel last month, only days after his marriage.”

Maud’s mouth fell open. Stunned, she looked from the Count to the Abbot.

“Yes, Madam, the white ship carrying the wedding party from Normandy to England sank without a trace,” confirmed Count Auberi. “It is assumed that not long after embarking, she drifted too near the treacherous rocks that have been the destruction of more than one vessel. With the exception of a citizen of Rouen, everyone on board was lost.” He paused. “The King, your father, is inconsolable.”

“We’re sorry to bring you such sad tidings barely two years after the death of your sainted mother,” added the Abbot, signing himself.

Maud could not think of an appropriate response. She had been saddened by her mother’s death, but William, who had always treated her with cruelty, had never been her friend. His death had little personal meaning for her.

“May God assoil him,” she said at last, signing herself. “My poor father. What will he do? William was his heir.”

The two visitors exchanged glances.

“Indeed, Madam, I imagine all Europe is asking that very question,” said the Abbot. “Who will wear the crown of England and the ducal coronet of Normandy when your father dies? May that day be far into the future.” He signed himself. “Most unfortunate that your brother was King Henry’s only remaining legitimate child.”

“Except for my wife, of course,” interjected the Emperor.

The Abbot and Count Auberi looked at him in mild surprise; clearly, they did not think the matter relevant.

“Who will inherit?” Maud asked. “It cannot be my half-brother, Robert. He is a bastard and Holy Church would never accept him as king.”

“Unfortunately that is true, for Earl Robert of Gloucester would be the ideal candidate.” The Abbot paused. “It is too soon to say. Much too soon.”

“But surely there have been candidates mentioned?” The Emperor looked from one to the other. “Come, do you tell me the matter has not been discussed.”

The Abbot cleared his throat. “Of course, one cannot help but speculate.”

“And?” persisted the Emperor, narrowing his eyes.

“There’s not a very fertile field. Your wife’s cousin, Stephen of Blois, Count of Mortain, is the name mentioned most frequently,” said the Abbot. “He’s the King’s nephew, and like a right arm to him. No child of his body could be more dutiful, more loyal, or more loved by the nobles and commonfolk alike.”

“Stephen stands high in the King’s favor,” the Count agreed. “Just recently his uncle betrothed him to Matilda, daughter of the Count of Boulogne, a great heiress. With the exception of Madam’s half-brother, Robert of Gloucester, no man has been granted greater wealth or honors than Count Stephen.”

“Everyone agrees he would be an excellent choice for the throne,” offered his companion. “You know, Stephen was actually aboard the doomed vessel, and at the last moment—” He paused uncertainly with an eye on Maud.

The Emperor raised his eyebrows. “Go on. You may speak freely.”

The Abbot cleared his throat. “Unfortunately the wedding guests were flown with wine, including Prince William. There was an altercation of some kind and William and his companions threw Stephen overboard.”

How like her twin, Maud thought. It was just the sort of vicious behavior one might expect of William.

“One can clearly see God’s hand in this matter,” concluded the Abbot. “Stephen was meant to survive; William was not.”

“And no great loss, from all I’ve heard,” said the Emperor dryly. “If the crew were also in their cups that certainly explains the wreck. This nephew of the King sounds a very paragon, though I must say I never thought too highly of the House of Blois. The stock is weak and unreliable. One of the sons, I heard, has never been sound in his wits, and didn’t the father disgrace himself at some battle in the Holy Land? Now I think of it, wasn’t there talk—”

“I’m glad my cousin Stephen was spared,” Maud interjected quickly, before the Emperor could launch into one of his favorite subjects: scandal. Her husband knew the dark secrets of every ruling house in Europe, and relished discussing them.

As the men continued to talk, a picture sprang into Maud’s mind of the smiling youth with the green-gold eyes she had seen but once yet never forgotten.

“Of course, Stephen is only a nephew and I imagine my father would want an heir of his own flesh and blood,” she wondered aloud. “Such a coil. What will he do?”

“What would you advise him to do?” asked the Emperor with a sly look at the two visitors.

“Marry again, of course,” Maud said promptly. “My father must lose no time in finding another wife so that he can beget an heir before he grows too old.” She paused, wishing she had been more tactful, since the Emperor was not that many years younger than her father.

The Abbot nodded. “Exactly what the King’s closest adviser, Bishop Roger of Salisbury, has told him.”