thought it was over and we’d won. I’d never have let Geoffrey go with her to London if I’d known how things would turn. Couldn’t she have smiled and cajoled the burgesses with a few soft words and empty promises?”
“That’s Stephen’s way.” Cecily would brook no criticism of the Empress, not even from a father maddened with grief.
“There’s a time for Stephen’s way,” her father growled, “and that was it. But no, she had to get on her high horse and put everyone’s back up. They called her a niggish fishwife.”
Cecily bit back a hot retort. Maud’s enemies sneered at her proud nature. Some of her own followers even grumbled against it. Such talk always made Cecily’s blood boil. What did they expect from a granddaughter of William the Conqueror? He’d been a proud, ruthless man by all accounts, yet none of his subjects had held it against him. He’d been a strong king, and strong kings made for a secure, stable kingdom. A few years of Stephen’s weak rule had bred lawlessness and chaos. But Maud was a woman and it galled the barons to submit to her will.
Walter Tyrell bent forward, until his forehead rested on the lip of his son’s bier. “I’ve paid for her arrogance with my flesh and blood.” With wrenching, rasping sobs, he began to weep.
Cecily stood behind him, torn between pity and wrath. She reached out, but stopped short of touching his heaving back. For a moment her hand hovered. She’d spent so long fighting her father, she had no idea how to comfort him. Would he even accept an overture from her? Wrenching back her hand, she turned away and stole out of the chapel, leaving her father alone to lament.
Back out in the bailey, she saw that the sun had set and the air was beginning to cool. The refugees were clustered in tight groups near the walls, bedding down on piles of straw, talking in hushed, anxious tones.
Cecily’s fatigue suddenly smote her like a mailed fist. She’d risen well before dawn at the convent. Could it be this same day? She yawned deeply. Since noon she’d ridden many miles, taken charge of a castle in turmoil and tried to grasp the reality of her brother’s death. Cecily’s stomach rumbled ominously, reminding her that she had not eaten since the noon meal at Wenwith. Both food and sleep would have to wait until she had spoken with the Empress.
Trudging up the spiral staircase of the north tower toward her own solar, Cecily wondered what the Empress could want with her. She hoped the interview would be brief.
A torch burned brightly in the high wall sconce, and a delicious breath of cool air wafted in through the open tower window. Piers Paston had evidently recovered himself enough to attend the comforts of their honored guest with food and wine.
“Here you are come at last, my child.” The Empress held out her hand and drew Cecily down beside her, onto a low bench covered with embroidered cushions. A waiting woman brought two goblets of wine, then withdrew from the room at a nod from her mistress.
Cecily took a sip of wine, hoping it might revive her. She did not want to offend the Empress by falling asleep in the middle of their talk.
“I would have been here sooner—” she began, intending to apologize.
Maud raised a hand. “No need to explain. You have responsibilities. And grief. I regret the loss of your brother. He was a good lad, serious beyond his years. I hope my sons will grow to be such fine young men. Your brother died that my Henry may one day rule this land, as his grandfather intended. I do not undervalue his sacrifice.”
For the first time since Mabylla had blurted the news of Geoffrey’s death, Cecily felt tears welling up in her eyes. Impatiently, she dashed them away with the back of her hand.
“He was only three years younger than I.” She tried to keep her voice from breaking. “I mothered him as best I could.”
The Empress politely averted her eyes. “I know how it feels to lose a brother,” she said quietly, almost to herself. “I lost my brother, William, when I was about your age. It changed my whole life, as the loss of your brother will change yours.”
Cecily nodded. She knew the story of Prince William’s death. Newly married, he’d been returning to England when the ill-fated White Ship was wrecked. With him had perished any hope of a peaceful succession.
Abruptly the Empress changed the subject. “Do you remember the day I first came to Brantham?” A smile warmed her strong, comely features, as she referred to the heady days of her arrival in England. When nobles dissatisfied with Stephen’s weak rule had flocked to her standard.
Cecily nodded, biting her lip. A faint blush prickled in her cheeks. She could picture herself, a leggy sixteen-year-old clad in boy’s tunic and hose, pleading the Empress’s leave to join her army. She would give her life for Maud’s cause, Cecily had vowed with the fierce earnestness of which only youth is capable. With no hint of condescension, the Empress had gently declined Cecily’s valiant offer. Instead, she’d taken Robert and Giles.
“You pledged your life to me.” The Empress smiled over her wine. “Do you still hold to that pledge?”
With trembling hands, Cecily set her cup on the floor. Did she understand aright? Was Maud finally desperate enough to accept her service? “Yes. Oh yes, your grace!”
Clasping her hands in petition, Cecily felt her hunger, weariness and grief consumed in a white-hot flame of heroism. “You’ll see. I’ll be as good a soldier as any of my brothers. I will fight for you to the last breath in my body.”
Maud folded her hand around Cecily’s. “No doubt you would, my dear. I disdain neither your ability nor your courage, believe me. But I have a far more important mission in mind for you than simply bearing arms.”
“You want me to spy on the Flemings?” Cecily cried, flushed and eager.
“I want you to marry Rowan DeCourtenay,” countered Maud.
“Marry?” Cecily echoed, unable to disguise the plaintive disappointment in her voice.
Chapter Two
“Marry?” thundered Rowan DeCourtenay. “Never!”
In the great hall of Devizes Castle, several powerful barons glanced toward DeCourtenay and the Empress. Naked fear whitened more than one face. Thwarted in her quest for the English throne, Maud clung tenaciously to her royal prerogatives—such as the unquestioning obedience of her followers. Even her most loyal supporters could not cross her without feeling the nettle sting of her tongue.
Either DeCourtenay merited special consideration or her reception in London had taught the Empress to curb her volatile temper. Maud replied to his outburst with calm reason. “Why ever not, you stubborn ass? It would benefit all concerned. The girl is heiress to an honor that stretches over four counties, which you could add to your own. She would gain a canny warrior to protect her lands.”
“And you?” Rowan flexed a shoulder, uncomfortable in borrowed robes. Truth be told, he felt uneasy and vulnerable without the reassuring weight of his armor. “How does this marriage benefit you?”
Before the Empress had time to reply, he demanded, “Who is this woman, anyway? Twenty-three and never married. Tell me, is she a hunchback or a half-wit?” Rowan grimaced. There were men in England, one or two in this very room, who would not scruple to wed any monstrosity if it promised to enlarge their holdings. He did not count himself among that unprincipled number.
Yet there was something to be said for the notion of wedding a plain or simpleminded woman. She’d be less apt to engage a heart he dared not risk again. And she wouldn’t draw every man within miles, the way Jacquetta had.
Other conversation in the hall had fallen silent. The Empress deliberately turned her back on their audience, pitching her voice for his ears alone.
The drop in volume did not detract from the force of her words. “The girl is well-made—quite pretty, in fact. And you would underestimate her wits to your peril.”
“A