Page 187 of The Daughters of Avalon
“Aye, you will,” Seren promised, hoping Morwen wasn’t out there. If, in truth, he had been speaking to one of her birds, her mother couldn’t be far. “Once we arrive at Warkworth, I will see to it you get to carry some home toyour mum.”
And she only hoped it was a promise she could keep.
Chapter
Nineteen
Giles had no sooner stabled his mount and entered the palace when the King’s steward intercepted him. At once, he was ushered into a private meeting, where Stephen acknowledged his entrance with a nod—so much for washing the dirt from his travels before addressing the King.
He soon discerned why: It was an emergency meeting of the Rex Militum—a secret league, known only to a few. It was perhaps similar to the Papal Guard, only licensed to enforce the King’s Law, by sway, or by sword. Giles was one of eleven men present today, including William d'Aubigny, the Earl of Arundel and Cael d’Lucy, the newly appointed Earl of Blackwood. In attendance, as well, was the Queen Consort of England, and though she was not seated precisely at the table, her attendance could hardly be mistaken. Whatever lack of affection she and her husband shared in the bedroom clearly it did not extend itself to his court. Giles had always suspected her to be a driving force in her husband’spolitiks, but now he knew it for certes. It was uncommon to see any woman in such a venerable position, and Henry himself, though he’d raised up his daughter to be his heir, never granted such liberties to either of his wives, nor to Matilda.
Adeliza of Louvain had been a quiet lady, with grace beyond her years. She would never have presumed to advise Henry. And though Henry had worshipped his first wife, she, too, would never presume to advise him as Maude did with Stephen. In fact, so far as the Empress was concerned, it came as little surprise that Stephen could so easily rouse the barons against her when even her own father never took her seriously.
Nor, in truth, had the Vatican ever considered bowing to a woman’s sovereignty. The instant Matilda’s first husband died she’d had to cede the Empire to her husband’s successor. Her crowns, such as they were, were only adornments now, and no matter how proudly she wore them (or how stubbornly), she would never wear them on her father’s throne. After all was said and done, Duke Henry was their only true chance to restore the realm to Beauclerc’s blood.
Curious about the agenda, Giles remained silent, listening.
He was not a member of this cloak and dagger company, and he only knew of its existence because one of the members was also a spy for the Papal Guard—of which no doubt, Stephen had already surmised Giles was a constituent. Even as he took his seat, the mood in the chamber turned grimmer and the men sat on tenterhooks. The candle flames stilled over the hush of the room.
King Stephen held a small taper before him, with a wick that had burned so long it nearly consumed itself. He spoke gravely, “`Tis no’ enough he insults my wife—his blood—forswearing her right to be my queen. My spies tell me he intends to seize York, and I’ll not sit idly by whilst David mac Maíl Choluim robs me of another bishopric.”
Remembering a conversation he’d had months ago with the King of Scotland, Giles wondered how Stephen discovered the plot. So, it seemed, he still had spies at large—not Malcom, for certes. From what he knew of Malcom Scott, he was not avacillator. He’d turned his back on kith and kin once before, and Giles doubted he would return to the Scots’ fold only to play them false. At any rate, one did not rouse entire armies, with thousands upon thousands of warriors, only to act as though on the stage of a play. Nay. It was not Malcom, though he had his suspicions over who it might be…
The silence was deafening, until Stephen spoke again. “You’d think it was enough to have Carlisle—bastard.”
“Your Grace, I did warn that it was a mistake not to challenge him all those years ago,” said one of his counselors. “He has established himself well enough that England will be hard-pressed to ever see his lands or levies again.”
The King’s gaze slid to the man speaking—tall and lean, with dark hair that was shorn to the nubs. His face sported a number of scars. And judging by the mirror image of the face of the man seated beside him, those two must be the Beaumont twins, Waleran and Robert. In reward for their services, Stephen had already awarded them Worcester, Leicester, Hereford, Warwick and Pembroke. Now that Robert of Gloucester was dead, the Beaumont twins might well be the most well-appointed men in the realm.
“Your Grace, I am also hearing rumors to the effect that Duke Henry is bargaining with Ranulf to give up his claims to Carlisle in return for the Honour of Lancaster.”
The King twisted his lips. “De Gernon?”
“Aye, Your Grace, de Gernon.”
“You should never have trusted the faithless bastard,” interjected D’Lucy, with an ease and familiarity regarded only to a man of his station. “I warrant de Gernon has flipped more times than a gambler’s coin.”
Someone else interjected. “I believe that is true, Your Grace. We are fortunate enough to have discovered his intentions in Wales, or we would still be mired in disputation.”
Cael d’Lucy rested his face between his thumb and forefinger, regarding the speaker pointedly. “Are we not still mired in disputation? Pray tell, know you something I do not?”
“If there is disputation, perhaps you should look to yourself. You had Elspeth Pendragon at your whim, and yet you tarried so long she made you a fool. Now, you will tarry with her sister, until?—”
The King waved a hand in dismissal. “God’s bones! That is a matter for another time,” he said. “The matter for discussion is Carlisle, and Carlisle is not Ranulf’s to bargain with.”
“And, nevertheless, if David agrees to the terms, de Gernon will give homage to David and Duke Henry both, and with the backing of the Scots, they will surely turn their heads toward York.”
“Why? Why should David give up Carlisle when he has clamored for that seat so long as he’s had hair on his balls?”
“For the glory of York, Your Grace.”
“He would, for York,” agreed another.
Giles watched the King’s men—head gestures and subtle hand signals… Clearly, there were spies in David’s court and spies in the Earl of Chester’s retinue… all these men were well connected… none more so than Cael d’Lucy.
The two regarded each other with an air of affected boredom, but there was underlying tension burning beneath the surface. Giles was the first to look away.
“Father,” said Eustace—that fresh-faced bastard responsible for the burning at Warkworth. “Sendmenorth withmyarmy,” demanded the nineteen-year-old scissorbill.
