The Stolen Crown

by Carol McGrath

Genres: Historical Fantasy; Action & Adventure; Medieval

Synopsis

The stunning new novel from the queen of historical fiction! Perfect for fans of Elizabeth Chadwick, Anne O'Brien and Philippa Gregory

When Princess Matilda is eighteen years old, tragedy strikes the royal family, and she becomes the only child of the king of England - the de facto heir to the throne. As her dying father persuades the barons to pledge allegiance to her, Matilda returns to England - but the lords and clergy do not like an independent woman. And Matilda is nothing if not headstrong . . .

When the old king dies, the country is plunged into instant chaos. So begins a fierce battle between cousins that will go down in history as a time called 'The Anarchy'. And Matilda must race across England, evading capture until she can demand the crown . . .

(P) Headline Publishing Group Ltd 2023

Release date: May 18, 2023

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 384

Sample

Windsor Castle’s great hall doors flew open to admit the Archbishops of Canterbury and York. The neatly tonsured pair swept in from the snow, followed by a retinue of abbots and bishops. Ordered to attend King Henry’s Christmas court, they crowded into the tall, hammer-beamed hall. A blaze in the central hearth briefly flared up from the draught, before crackling and dying down as the doors closed behind the last abbot, aging William Godemon of Gloucester Abbey, who tapped his way forward, leaning heavily on a stick. The nobles – fashionably clad in the finest of woollen gowns, embroidered long-toed shoes and fur-lined mantles pinned with ostentatious jewels – moved aside to allow the clergy to gather closer to the fire.

Maud sat proudly by her father on the dais, her face immobile and chin held high. She rarely smiled in public. She had, after all, been Empress of Germany and Queen of the Romans until her much-loved husband’s death a few years earlier, when her papa, the first King Henry had recalled her to England. She had willingly agreed to a return, knowing that he hoped to declare her as his heir. An empress ranked more highly than a queen, naturally, but Maud and Emperor Heinrich V had been childless. Now that there was a new emperor in Germany, she could not pass up the opportunity to rule England and Normandy as a queen in her own right. It was far preferable to settling for a lesser role in the German court or, worse, a new marriage in that land where she had lived from the age of eight.

Maud knew that England’s clergy and barons had been summoned to Windsor over Christmas to recognise her as her father’s heir, because the widowed young Empress was her father’s only living legitimate child. It was not, of course, that King Henry did not have other children. He had sired nineteen in all, born to his many mistresses, most of them raised together as faithful subjects and half-siblings at his court. Maud’s mother, the Princess Edith of Scotland, known as Queen Matilda of England, had accepted them all, considering her marital duty done once she had provided Henry with a son and a daughter. But, seventeen years ago, William, Maud’s brother, had drowned on a vessel called the White Ship, whilst departing Boulogne. His death had broken her father’s heart. And, although King Henry had remarried following his first wife’s death, this union had not produced children in five years of marriage. Surprising, Maud mused, as he had many children with his mistresses.

Queen Adeliza, Empress Maud’s golden-headed young stepmother, smiled serenely upon the enormous crowd as Maud idly watched her. It was an unusual gathering of both priests and nobles, Maud concluded, her blue eyes moving past Adeliza to take in the crammed hall. She hoped she looked as regal, to them, as the jewelled gold band on her head. Her glossy black plait, adorned with golden bindings, lay over her right breast, reaching down to her magnificent belt studded with sapphires and pearls. A delicate cream silk veil framed her handsome face.

The faces at the back of the crowd blurred into a sea of pale ovals, too far away for Maud’s short-sighted eyes to reach. She blinked, focused hard and studied the countenances of the bishops who knelt before her instead, ready to take the succession oath demanded by her father. On bended knee, they would recognise her, a woman, as King Henry’s heir and as their liege lady, after his death. Yet, even raised above the peerage and the bishops as she was today, she was not precisely sure whether this meant she was to be a queen in her own right, a queen consort or a queen mother. Her father had been deliberately vague on this point. Ideally, she suspected, he would like her to provide him with a grandson before his death. But, to her mind, the oath’s wording lacked a certain clarity. After all, she had experience ruling alongside Heinrich, Emperor of the Germans and the Holy Roman Empire. She knew she could command a populace as well as any prince. Maud wriggled slightly and scratched her wrist in impatience. She wondered, as the interminable oath-taking slowly began, how many of these nobles and bishops truly meant their oath and how many did not.

The order of oath-taking was masterfully directed by Roger of Salisbury, an efficient and popular bishop with sharp eyes, tall and thin as a willow reed. First of all, the archbishops swore allegiance to her, followed by the bishops, who also proceeded without complaint. Only Salisbury himself dared to express a caveat, declaring that, if the lady – meaning Maud herself, she realised with a shock – was to remarry abroad, then they, the clergy, must be consulted. King Henry looked at the Bishop with thunderous eyes under his grey, bushy brows. With an impatient flick of his hand, he summoned him to come closer.

When Bishop Roger had slowly mounted the dais and bent his head close to the King’s ear to hear better, Henry muttered something incomprehensible to them all. Maud strained hard to hear his words – but then, with a nod, the elegant Bishop Roger was turning and floating down the dais steps as if he walked on air. He returned to his place at the front of the queue of bishops. In a clear voice, he took the oath.

Maud swallowed and swore under her breath. She would not share her throne or her bed with any man unless he was one of her own choosing. The remaining bishops successively took the oath, and then her uncle, King David of Scotland, who took precedence over the English nobles, swore next. He was followed by her cousin, flaxen-haired, pleasant-mannered Stephen of Blois, who swore in a reedy yet confident voice, his pale head dipped so that she could not see his face. There was something hooded about Stephen’s usually open demeanour today. Did she sense reluctance about that stocky young man who had grown up in her father’s court and was married to the icy heiress, Matilda of Boulogne? He was a grandchild of William, the Norman Conqueror, just like Maud herself. And yet she, Maud reassured herself, a ghost of a frown darkening her brow, was daughter of the King, whilst Stephen was only the son of Adela, William’s daughter. He was the heir to Blois, a wealthy land across the Narrow Sea. Wealthy, but paltry in comparison to a throne.

As Stephen straightened up from taking his oath, his clear blue eyes met Maud’s at last, for a second, and she caught his bland smile; but then he was stepping back and her favourite half-brother, dark-eyed, bear-like Robert of Gloucester, was stepping forward and swearing in his gruff voice, his face open, whereas Stephen’s had been closed. Maud began to relax again, but momentarily. Gazing down the hall at the gathered assembly, she heard a snatch of some complaining voice.

‘It is a disgrace,’ Abbot Anselm of Bury St Edmunds was saying. ‘The nobility should never be given precedence over the abbots.’

Could a cleric put a stop to the oath-taking?

‘Father!’ she hissed, again leaning towards her father. ‘Do you hear Abbot Anselm?’

He had, because Henry lifted his hand and roared at the abbots who were shoving past the peers of the land. ‘What is done cannot be undone. Cease complaining about who takes precedence and get in line. The other earls first and then you abbots!’

Maud breathed more easily after that, though her father’s stern words taught her a valuable lesson. The silly fracas indicated that keeping order amongst upstart abbots and vain, competing nobles might require firmness – even ruthlessness – once she was their queen.

It was Brien Fitz Count’s turn. Her heart fluttered as he bowed his dark tousled curls and, rising, smiled at her, his black eyes dancing, giving her renewed courage. Brien had been her dearest friend at court since she was a child, and, since she had returned to England, she had found herself looking for him more and more often. She knew that Brien would be as fiercely loyal to her as he was to her father. If she was indeed crowned England’s Queen and Duchess of Normandy following her father’s death, Count Brien and her half-brother, Robert, were more than equal to the task of supporting her rule. Papa, she noted, looked in superb health today, his grey hair neatly curled, his short beard trimmed and his eyesight as keen as ever, missing nothing, even though he was into his fifth decade. This first Henry had reigned for a quarter century and more. There would be plenty of time for him to instruct her about the particular ways of ruling his kingdom.

As the afternoon light faded and sconces were lit, the oath-taking drew to a close. Tonight, they would dine with the great men of England, on the understanding that, for now, the succession was settled.

‘You are every inch a future queen and my daughter,’ her father said, with warmth in his voice. ‘I’m proud of you.’ He thought for a moment, glanced sideways at Adeliza. ‘And now, my beautiful Queen, we must turn our attention to finding her a husband, so that she may give me a grandson.’

Adeliza inclined her head in agreement, but Maud’s heartbeat quickened. Clasping her hands in her lap, her whole body was rigid with indignation. For she had been married to the great Emperor of Germany and Rome for thirteen years, and had learned much about leadership. She simply did not need a husband chosen for her, from within this kingdom or from any kingdom beyond the Narrow Sea. In fact, she had already rejected many suitors since her return to England and she would continue to do so.

And yet . . . glancing along the supper table to where Brien Fitz Count was seated beside her brother Robert, she reflected that someone similar might persuade her otherwise, but she knew of no one similar. Count Brien himself was taken to husband already by the heiress Tilda of Wallingford. That lady, mused Maud, was a woman as wealthy as the richest bishop or noble in the land, but she was far too old to give her handsome husband children, and much too interested in managing her own vast land holdings to accompany Brien to court. Tilda was, Maud thought, a somewhat dour if self-possessed woman, as pleased with herself as a cat that had just snatched a fish from an abbey pond. Roger of Salisbury had warned against a foreign marriage, and who was more English than Brien? Maud flexed her fingers beneath her long sleeves. Marriages – particularly if there was no issue – could be annulled.

Supper dishes were pushed aside and tankards were refilled. Count Brien stood, stretched and approached Henry’s chair. Maud felt a ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of her otherwise purposefully serious mouth. Brien loved fashionable garments for his court appearances and today he was dressed in crimson damask with scalloped gold borders, his long tunic narrow to show off his fine figure, split at each side, revealing hose of deep blue. She noted on his feet a pair of beautiful embroidered shoes that slightly curled up above his toes, like little gold and red snakes.

When the King gave him a nod, Brien clapped his hands, and, at this signal, a group of minstrels tripped into the centre of the hall from behind an arras. They played carols on various instruments and a young girl with flowing fair hair began to sing in a pure and clear voice, the notes dropping like pearls from her mouth. The ballad told of the adventures of a pair of swans that magically changed into a prince and princess who long, long ago ruled over a very ancient kingdom of the Celts. The guests were hypnotised by the beauty of her voice and the exquisite accompaniment of harp, triangle and a citole, played by two equally fair-haired young boys.

Maud slipped her hand to her belt and loosened her coin purse. Gesturing to a page, she instructed him to take it to Count Brien, that he might, on her behalf, reward the girl with the sweet voice and her family of musicians. Count Brien grinned and nodded to Maud on receipt of the gift. She felt colour rise up her throat at his smile.

‘I am tired tonight and I think we can respectably leave the company now,’ Adeliza said a little later, with a delicate yawn, quickly masking it with her ringed fingers. There would be other entertainments that night. A juggler was already tossing coloured balls into the air. Cups were being refilled. But Maud was content to leave too.

Outside, snow appeared to hover in the air. Maud and Adeliza drew their mantles closer against the shock of the cold night after the heat in the hall. With a rustle of silks, they entered into a chilly outer passage, which led to the royal bower hall and, beyond that, into the peace and quiet of Queen Adeliza’s apartments.

‘They’ll drink and toast far into the morning,’ Adeliza remarked as they hurried along the stone passageway. ‘Tomorrow, there’ll be an afternoon’s entertainment with carolling for Epiphany. We’ll need our rest.’

Maud was not listening because her attention had wandered. ‘Look!’ She stopped and peered through an open archway into a garden. ‘Snow. It makes this palace look so peaceful.’

Adeliza crossed herself. ‘By Saint Romanus, it is beautiful.’ She stood so close that Maud could feel her stepmother’s warm breath on her cheek. ‘And let us pray this land remains so,’ Adeliza whispered into the night.

Maud knew why Adeliza spoke as she did, because everything could change in a moment. The barons would attack each other’s castles in a trice if there was not a firm hand at the helm. What will I inherit if they start fighting with each other over lands and castles? she wondered, with a shudder, as she followed Adeliza into the bower.

Before Maud drifted into sleep that night, she uneasily recalled her father’s words: We must find her a husband.

‘Papa, try as you may, you’ll find me unwilling.’ Maud thumped her pillow mutinously, causing a rip and scattering a snowstorm of duck feathers. She brushed them away. ‘You cannot force me.’

Maud seethed at her father’s insistence that Geoffrey of Anjou would make her a suitable husband.

‘Geoffrey of Anjou cannot have seen more than fifteen summers,’ she argued. Why would she wed a fifteen-year-old boy when she had been previously married to one of the greatest men in Christendom? She had travelled to Italy – to Rome itself – with Heinrich, and had ruled for him in his absence. Known as ‘the good Matilda’ throughout the Holy Roman Empire, she had earned great respect. And, one day, she would rule over England and Normandy. That mere boy, Geoffrey of Anjou, was not her equal in any way. She had been offered better matches in Germany after Heinrich’s untimely death and had declined all suitors. Besides . . . A dark-haired, wickedly smiling face swam into her mind. She comforted herself by thinking the bishops would not like the match any more than she did. But, for all her fiery determination not to be forced into a marriage not of her choosing, her father, she knew, would not be gainsaid.

And she was proved right. She had voiced her objections, but her father tried over and over throughout March, April and May to persuade her there was an unprecedented threat to their territory of Normandy. It came from William Clito, who was closely allied to Louis, the King of France.

‘Only marriage to the youth can avert this danger,’ Henry had told Maud during Pentecost at Winchester. They sat at the high table, presiding over the Pentecost feast, enjoying the late spring sunlight reflecting off their golden dishes as they feasted on roasted swan; all were perfectly content until King Henry raised the difficult subject of marriage.

Winchester was one of Maud’s favourite castles, one which held the royal treasury. It boasted a gleaming stone keep, a clean and spacious courtyard, a sweet-smelling pleasant garden she could access through a side door from the great hall, and stout, crenellated high walls. Some of the newly added chamber windows were glazed with pale green glass and the hall itself contained two rows of pillars painted with acanthus tendrils and flowers. There was a great central fireplace, and tapestries depicting hunts hung from the walls. Maud enjoyed this castle’s convenience to both town and markets, as it was situated close to Winchester’s West Gate, through which she could ride with her ladies, dogs and falcons out into the woods beyond the bustling town. Winchester was as ancient as the royal bones held in caskets within its cathedral. Today was spoiled. A shadow was cast over her happiness.

‘His lands of Anjou can protect Normandy’s southern border,’ her father was saying as he lifted a morsel of swan flesh with his stubby fingers.

‘I see,’ she said, but she didn’t.

Later, sitting before the flickering light of the fire in King Henry’s private rooms, Maud searched for excuses not to agree. ‘Geoffrey is too young,’ she said. ‘His rank is too inferior to my own. I still mourn Heinrich.’

But Henry countered her arguments at every turn. In March, King Louis had created William Clito the Count of Flanders, and the latter was now married into the Capet royal family, having been given the Queen of France’s kinswoman to wife. With the only sure, safe, loyal region on Normandy’s borders being the county of Blois, held by her cousin Stephen and his wife Matilda of Boulogne, her father argued endlessly that it was her duty to ensure Normandy’s protection by agreeing to this awful marriage.

‘A pawn in the game of kings. Such is a princess’s fate,’ Maud muttered angrily to herself later, in bed, spilling more feathers from her pillow every time she thumped it.

Adeliza was, of course, tasked with persuading Maud that it was the right thing to do and that it was her duty to agree to this marriage. ‘The right thing to do?’ she stormed at her stepmother, despite her affection for her. ‘It is not the right thing for me.’

After Pentecost, the royal family spent June at Henry’s favourite hunting lodge near Broceste, in the depths of the king’s New Forest. On the morning following their arrival, Henry, Adeliza and Maud privately broke their fast in the great chamber above the hall. Outside, the stamping and snorting of horses reached up through the opened shutters. Maud planned to ride that morning, hunting small birds with her own personal guard protecting her. She hoped the subject of her marriage would – if not forgotten – be set aside for the moment.

But Geoffrey of Anjou was not forgotten – far from it. As soon as she sat down to break her fast, her mind set upon hunting in the forest that day, her father set a soft roll spread with honey onto his plate, puffed his scarlet wool-covered chest out and pounced, repeating his arguments yet again. ‘This union will secure Normandy from France and Clito. We lost Anjou’s support when your brother drowned, and his widow, young Geoffrey’s sister, passed from my control. Your marriage—’

‘Papa, I pray you, I do not wish to discuss this today. I have other plans this morning.’

Henry pushed his tankard of watered ale aside and brushed crumbs from his tunic. ‘Enough. I require you to be ready to travel to Rouen within a week’s space, Maud. You will be betrothed to Geoffrey as soon as he travels with his father, Count Baldwin, into Normandy. Let this be an end to your objections.’

Turning to her father, she lifted a hand to cup her ear and said angrily, ‘Don’t you hear them, Papa? My knights have saddled up and are waiting for me out there.’ She waved her hand impatiently towards the sounds filtering through the window. ‘It’s a glorious morning, the sky so blue. Not a cloud to disturb it. I promised them we would fly our falcons.’

Henry rose and thrust his bare head out of the opened window. He grunted and, after drawing his neck inside again, turned to her. ‘If you have promised to go on a hunt, Maud, ride out into the woods today, but take care. My dear brother, Rufus, was killed in that forest.’

Maud suppressed a shiver; heirs to the throne were never safe.

‘Make sure Drogo guards you with diligence,’ Henry added.

‘Indeed, Papa, he will.’

Tall, powerful and quick-thinking, hawk-eyed Drogo had been in command of her personal guard since she was twelve years old. He was devoted to her and had accompanied her when she returned to her father’s court. She determined that, if there was no alternative and she had to travel to meet Geoffrey of Anjou in Rouen, Drogo would command her household knights.

‘We won’t stray from the bridleways, Papa. The mounts sorely need exercise.’ It was a lame excuse, because her knights were perfectly capable of exercising their horses without her, but Maud loved to ride and was an accomplished horsewoman. She even wore a divided bliaut, a variation on that full-skirted gown, created especially for her comfort whilst hunting. Otherwise, she rode side-saddle.

‘And your women?’ Henry said, frowning. ‘I trust they will be in attendance?’

She knew there was no chance of slipping away without a few of her ladies keeping her company. ‘Of course, Papa. Those who ride well are accompanying us today.’

Henry growled, ‘Return prepared to understand that our crossing to Normandy is an urgent matter.’ He knit his brows and his irritation with her showed in his steely gaze. ‘We leave within the month. Your brother, Robert of Gloucester, is strengthening our castle walls in the south, but it is not enough.’

Maud remained unimpressed by her father’s harsh tones. ‘Well, a curse on Clito,’ she said forcefully.

Adeliza, ever gracious, tried to diffuse the uncomfortable atmosphere with a smile and a dulcet tone as sweet as the honey dripping from her dainty spoon. ‘Enjoy your ride, Maud, but please return to the bower before Vespers. Bishop Roger has come over from Salisbury and he is officiating this afternoon. We want him on our side.’

‘Of course,’ Maud said, slightly inclining her head. She knew full well that the elegant Bishop Roger was unlikely to agree to an objectionable foreign marriage, and that, if Lady Fortune smiled on her, the Bishop could delay the sea journey to Normandy. He might even ferment a rejection of this whole marriage plan amongst the nobility and clergy.

‘On the contrary, he does not need to know,’ Henry said quickly, firmly putting an end to her hopes of help from that quarter. He glared at his wife. ‘Do not mention the betrothal plan to the Bishop, Adeliza. This is best kept within the family.’ He looked sharply from wife to daughter. ‘See it remains so, both of you.’

Maud bowed her head low and made her escape, her thoughts in turmoil. If her father found her disobeying this command of silence on the matter, he might send her to a convent. He alone could disinherit her, and make someone else his heir, like her strong brother, Robert, or the bland Stephen of Blois.

In high dudgeon, she flew down the narrow outer staircase and swept through the side entrance into the manor’s hall, where she summoned her three patiently waiting ladies to accompany her on her ride. Waving her hand at a band of servitors, she told them to hurry up, carry out refreshments and load these onto a wagon. There would be no return until Maud heard the Vespers bells ring out. Straight-backed and head held high, she marched from the busy hall into the courtyard, where her guards waited with their commander, a giant of a man, his long white hair tied with a cord behind his neck. This was Drogo. On seeing him, Maud smiled at last. Argos, her small black stallion, was already saddled up. She reached into a secret purse inside her woollen mantle and withdrew an apple. The horse nuzzled her hand and began to munch. Assisted by Drogo – she did not consider she needed his help, but occasionally liked him to think she did – she mounted the horse, taking her small peregrine falcon, Lady Blisset, onto her leather glove. Jangling her reins, impatient to escape the tensions within the manor over the brat from Anjou, she gave her mount’s flanks a nudge with her boots. Moments later, they were out of the gateway, cantering along a wide, leafy trackway deep into the sunlit forest.

After a pleasant morning watching Lady Blisset taking down thrushes or rooting around verges for rabbits, Maud called a halt. They had reached a leafy glade off the main track, where the June sunshine filtered through the tree canopy. In the distance, a church bell from a woodland hamlet rang out the hour of Sext. Now was a sensible time to rest and this glade would be perfect for their outdoor picnic. After the ladies dismounted and the knights set up a camp, her falconer tempted Lady Blisset into a large, strongly woven cage of willow struts by dangling a dead mouse. There, together with the other fowling birds, she was fed treats of chicken livers and more dead mice.

‘Lady Blisset is so graceful,’ Maud remarked to Drogo whilst they drank watered ale and munched cold pies. ‘Did you see her dive that last time?’

Drogo replied in his throaty Alsace accent, ‘She is the swiftest falcon of the whole cast of them.’

‘Papa knows a good peregrine. Pity all his gifts to me are not as welcome.’

But Drogo was not listening. His head jerked around on his thick neck and she realised her quip had passed him by.

‘My lady, I hear horses.’ Drogo had turned his watchful eyes toward the pathway. He jumped to his feet and scrambled up the high bank to see who was approaching. A heartbeat later, he called down, ‘There is company coming towards us.’ His knights were alert, positioning themselves protectively in a circle around the ladies, bows raised and arrows set. Then Drogo shouted, ‘By the saints, I believe it is Count Brien.’ He signalled to his men to lower their bows. Moments later, a laughing Brien Fitz Count, wearing a jaunty green cap with a pheasant’s feather, rode into their camp, followed by a rattling open-topped wagon on which were riding three fair-haired children and an assortment of oddly-shaped instruments, a hobby horse and what looked like puppetry.

Astonished, Maud rose to her feet and dusted herself down, heart still thudding. She raised a quizzical eyebrow as he approached. Why was Brien pursuing her into the woods? After the Easter court at Winchester, he had returned to the dowdy Countess Tilda.

Brien dismounted and bowed to her, and, as she rose from a curtsey, she noted his soft red leather riding boots with slightly pointed toes. She smiled to herself. Brien was nothing if not vain, even in the woods.

He bowed to her ladies – one by one, clearly ready to charm by referring to each by her name – Dame Margarete, Ladies Lenora, Anna and Mary. ‘I see I surprise you.’ Her women were fluttering their eyelashes at Brien’s boldness and seemed even more delighted when the handsome count indicated the rickety wagon, which was rolling dangerously close to their lady.

‘Halt!’ he raised a gloved hand and called to the lad holding a horse’s reins. Turning back, he said, ‘I arrived at the castle earlier and heard you were hunting. I thought you might enjoy an afternoon’s entertainment.’ He laughed, tossed back his shoulder-length dark curls, whistled and indicated that the cart should position itself in the centre of the open grassy circle. It disgorged the little group of musicians Maud had watched at Christmastide. To her delight, she recognised the young girl who sang like an angel. Seeing her in daylight, Maud thought her to be around fourteen or fifteen summers old, with her two brothers perhaps a few years younger. But were they siblings? Looking at them now, Maud saw that the girl was fairer than both boys.

‘May they play for you, my lady?’ Count Brien said to Maud.

‘It would be a waste of your effort in bringing them here if they did not,’ she said with a smile. After the arguments with her papa, Count Brien was just the light-hearted tonic she needed.

He stood back proudly, his legs akimbo and his arms folded under his light woollen and – she observed – silk-bordered mantle. The little troupe gathered before a stand of beech trees and lifted their various instruments. They began to play a number of country tunes. The girl, strands of golden hair escaping below a simple linen coif, sang a duet with one of the boys, a simple song about summer, love, flowers, birds and creatures of the wood. Maud listened intently. Her ladies and knights sat or leaned against trees, clearly enjoying Count Brien’s mischievous surprise. The canopy of trees allowed shafts of soft sunshine to percolate through their leaves, dappling the forest floor, and the sky peeped through, as blue as the bluebells that carpeted the woodland. It was a scene from a romance, Maud mused.

‘Come,’ Brien said, reaching out his hand to her. ‘Maud, I must speak with you privately.’

So that was it. Maud rose unwillingly, wondering what he had been charged to say, because now she began to suspect there was more to his appearance in the woods today than a sudden desire to entertain her. She could see through this ploy. Her wily, determined father must have sent for him – no wonder he had so easily agreed to her hunt that morning. This conversation would be about Geoffrey of Anjou and her imminent voyage over the Narrow Sea to Normandy.

When Drogo rose to follow her onto a woodland track, she signalled to him to stay at a distance. ‘Drogo, we will not move out of your sight,’ she called back over her shoulder as she strode off towards a distant beech tree to listen to what Brien had to say. The three mummers were setting up a play involving the hobby horse, an angel and a devil.