Free When Christ and His Saints Slept by Sharon Kay Penman

Why were you not aware that it was taking on water? In all honesty, I do not understand how you botched this so badly. You are a beautiful woman, Maude. Why you could not bedazzle or bewitch a lad of fifteen—”
    “How dare you pass judgment on me! Does Robert ever hit you? Does he boast openly of his bedmates? Take pleasure in your pain? Unless you can answer those questions with a yes, you cannot know what my marriage was like, and you have no right to criticize me!”
    “There is truth in what you say,” Amabel admitted. “But there is truth in what I said, too, and for your sake, I hope you can see that in time. Sooner or later, Geoffrey will take you back. Surely you know that? Your father is not about to let a headstrong cub thwart his will or undo his carefully crafted plans for the succession. Geoffrey will come to his senses; the king will see to that. And when he does, I hope you’ll remember what I said this night.”
    “Go away, Amabel,” Maude said, and although her sister-in-law looked aggrieved, she did. Maude still clutched her father’s letter, crumpled within her fist. She smoothed it out now, but did not reread it. Instead, she thrust it into the hearth. A scorching smell filled the room as the parchment caught fire, began to smolder. She watched it burn, not moving until it was engulfed in flames.

3

    Chartres Castle, France
    February 1133

    “T O know Scriptures is to know God’s Will,” the Bishop of Winchester declared, with utter certainty. “And Scriptures say: ‘Permit not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence. For Adam was first formed, then Eve.’ How much more clearly can it be put than that? A female king is not only a contradiction in terms, it is an abomination unto the Lord, and it must not come to pass.”
    In appearance, the bishop was unprepossessing, but he had a rich, resonant voice, and had justly gained himself a reputation for stirring oratory. His latest effort was wasted, though, upon this particular audience. To the rest of Christendom, Henry of Blois was a respected prince of the Church, one of England’s youngest bishops, clever and cultivated and a likely candidate to wear one day the mitre of Canterbury’s archbishop, for he was known to stand high in the favor of his uncle the English king. But to Theobald, Count of Blois and Champagne, and Stephen, Count of Boulogne and Mortain, he was still their younger brother, and his impressive adult successes would always be competing with memories of the child he’d once been, awkward and precocious and obstinate, a lonely little figure chasing after them down the byways of their boyhood, never quite catching up.
    No one hearing Henry could doubt the sincerity of his convictions, but Theobald had no great interest in the succession to the English throne. For some years now, he had quite competently ruled the prosperous domains he’d inherited, first from his father and then from his uncle—Blois, Chartres, Sancerre, Châteaudun, Meaux, and Champagne—and he was pragmatic enough to be satisfied with what God had given him. Stephen, too, was content with his lot in life; his marriage to Matilda de Boulogne had brought him both wealth and happiness. Unlike Theobald, though, he could not afford to be indifferent to English politics, for he held vast English estates. But he was not comfortable with Henry’s harangues about their cousin Maude; they stirred up too many doubts, too much unease.
    When a servant entered the solar with word of a guest’s unexpected arrival, Theobald was quick to make his escape, hastening down to the great hall to welcome their cousin the Earl of Gloucester. Stephen developed a sudden, unlikely desire to greet Robert, too, but Henry would have none of it, insisting that he remain, and Stephen sank down in his chair again, trapped by his reluctance to be rude.
    Henry was not troubled by Theobald’s defection, for his argument had been aimed at Stephen.